Going Into Retirement
by olehistorian
Summary: Based on a comment Mrs. Hughes alter ego made in an interview about Mrs. Hughes not going gently into retirement after being in charge for so very many years of a large country estate. Set in Series 5 and S6 and beyond. Some series 6 spoilers. Formerly, had the longer title "Not Going Into Retirement Gently"
1. Dreams

A/N: Mrs. Hughes ponders retirement. Set in S5 and into S6

She had never thought that she would live to retire. Thought that she would die in harness as they say. She'd thought him ridiculous when he'd said much the same thing back during the war, when he was considering going to Haxby; when he told her that he thought that he would die at Downton and haunt it ever after. She'd never, necessarily, thought that she'd die at Downton. Never thought of any one place of employment particularly, just that she would always need to work. She never really gave much thought to it; never imagined sitting behind her desk, pencil in hand, adding figures in her ledger, perhaps closing her eyes, resting her head back just for a moment, and that being it. Of someone finding her like that. Perhaps Madge or Anna, Mrs. Patmore, or heaven forbid, him. No, she imagined working as long as anyone would allow her. Whether it was at Downton by his side or somewhere else.

But when he proposed a business venture, she had to reconsider retirement; consider the improbability of it. She'd pushed idea to the back of her mind, because she knew that she could never and thought he would never consider it. She didn't think that he had it in him. However, things had changed since that day at the beach when she had dared him to move forward, when she had had enough of this pushing and pulling thing that they did to one another.

She had seen the hurt in his eyes when she had told him that she couldn't go in with him, couldn't invest her share. She had never wanted to string him along, never wanted to raise his hopes only to dash them. She had wanted to keep it from him, the secret of her sister, that she, herself, was a pauper. She had never lied, not by commission, but by omission and it seemed just as deceitful, just as hurtful. The look of hurt in his eyes was more than she could bear, to think that she had killed their little dream.

But he had surprised her. Instead of anger, he had shown kindness and generosity of spirit, blamed himself for bullying and chivvying her when he should have shown sensitivity; when he should have outright asked for her hand. However, he didn't ask that, not yet because he wasn't ready, couldn't screw up his courage and put it into words; the things people don't say to one another.

Then he had told her he'd bought the house. She was genuinely happy for him, told him that he deserved it and he did. But she also knew that it meant he would one day leave her; that he would retire to that house or to another. That she would be the one to die at Downton and haunt its halls ever after. He would leave and eventually so would Mrs. Patmore and perhaps Daisy would go off to the farm. And there she would be. Alone. Keys jingling at her hip, an ever rotating parade of young girls to train and mentor until they too left to marry and run their own houses while she stayed behind cataloguing someone else's linens, balancing someone else's ledgers, living in someone else's house. She would trudge flights of stairs to her room that was cold in winter, stifling with stagnant heat in summer. She would climb into a bed just big enough for one while he settled into a bed for two in a warm room, in a cozy house. But she was happy for him; really, she was. She had made her choices. Family came first; there was no room for empty promises or those yet to be made.

TBC…


	2. Two To Become One

Once, some years ago, she had told Mrs. Crawley that Mr. Carson had astonished her. She had never figured on his meeting Charlie Grigg at the station that day, never expected him to swallow his pride and see off his old pal; never expected him to extend his hand and wish well the man who'd caused him such misery and stolen his girl all those years ago. Yet he had done just that and she was well and truly taken aback. However, it was not the first time that he had left her speechless, taken her breath away. No, the day she had heard the strains of an old folk tune sung in his voice, tears pricked her eyes and she couldn't have found words to express the joy she felt when she heard the words he sang of her stealing his heart away. He didn't know she'd heard him singing and she'd never tell him. It was her secret to keep tucked away in the folds of her heart to remember on cold nights when they had argued over some stupid thing that did not really matter or when he'd said something insensitive or haughty.

It was not often that she was left speechless, unable to come up with a pithy remark or two, an explanation when pressed. But he had quite frankly astonished her with his proposal of marriage. Though she had hoped that someday he would finally get around to it, she had not expected him to leave the Christmas party while Lady Mary sang, guide her to his pantry, and close the door. When he told her that he signed her name to the deed, she thought he had done it out of some pang of loyalty, guilt over having pushed her to consider buying a house with him when she could not afford it. But she soon realized that it was not that at all.

Though there had been no grand declarations and he had never expressly said the word 'love,' she knew it all the same. The way he hadn't tugged at his waistcoat, as he was wont to do when unsure, told her that this had not been unplanned but that he had given careful consideration perhaps not to what he would say but to what he wanted her to understand. That he didn't call her by her Christian name, perhaps too intimate, perhaps feeling the hadn't the right quite yet and his not using her title, because this was not about their positions in the house but about their futures together, told her more than any words he said ever could. Simply, he told her that he wanted only her. When she finally found her words she stumbled, uttered something ridiculous about getting a proposal at her age. They still danced around one another until it was his turn to put a stop to it, to ask her what exactly she meant. Bringing her hand to her breast and shaking her head at her own silliness, she put him out of his misery.

The tears in his eyes when she accepted him, spoke of his love for her louder and more sweetly than had said the word itself. No, his proposal and her acceptance may not have been the stuff of romance novels, but it was the stuff of their romance; of a romance true and pure, deep and abiding, unmuddled by false notes of over sentimentality and the expectations of others. She had once told him they were different people, but now they would embark on becoming one.

TBC…thank you all for your support.


	3. The New Year

Since his proposal, the one that wasn't the business venture but the one in which he asked for her heart to be untied with his, her days were filled with so many things to plan. Deciding that they wanted some time to themselves, time to come to terms with and enjoy their understanding, she and Mr. Carson had decided to inform His Lordship and Her Ladyship of their understanding during the days between Christmas and the New Year. Though her Ladyship proved unsurprised and immediately congratulatory, His Lordship lived up to Miss Sybbie's name for him and proved slow on the uptake, genuinely confused at first. After a momentary lapse at yet another secret in his house that he had not noticed, he smiled brightly, extended a hand to Mr. Carson, and wished the couple well. Lady Mary, who popped into the room at the moment of this happy exchange, saw the bright smile on both the butler and housekeeper's faces and immediately guessed the news. Her happiness was immediate and genuine. With the family's acceptance, Mr. Carson practically floated on air the remainder of the day.

While she should have been planning her wedding, Mrs. Hughes was instead planning the festivities of the house. New Year's Eve proved especially daunting as the Crawleys decided to ring in 1925 in high style inviting all and sundry of their friends to an elaborate house party. It seemed as if everyone knew that these were the last days of such frivolities and what with Mr. Branson and Miss Sybbie leaving for America in a few days, everyone wanted to distract themselves from the sorrow of their departure. Even Mr. Carson had to admit that he would miss young man and Mrs. Hughes thought she saw his eyes glisten just a little when he spoke of Lady's Sybil's little girl leaving.

With planning the house party, memories of the last such event plaguing her mind to an alarming degree, Mrs. Hughes was exceedingly glad when the whole business was over and all the guests packed and departed. Catching her breath for a moment, she and Mr. Carson discussed when their wedding might be. As they sat in her sitting room, she nursed her sherry in one hand while Mr. Carson lovingly held the other. As exhausted as they were, they refused to give up their little late night talks especially now that they were to be married. They wished to be married as soon as possible, the wait excruciating; at least she knew it was for her though she would never tell him.

She had thought that she would live the life of a spinster and had been content with that, but now that she was his fiancée things had changed. As she sat across from him each night, discussing the mundane goings on of the house, or things decidedly less mundane but not improper, she thought of reaching over to untie his tie, loosen his collar, and unfasten the studs of his shirt just a little. Just enough to expose some of his skin, skin always covered by layers of starched perfection. Since she had tasted his lips the night of his proposal, before they ascended the stairs to re-join the Christmas party, she longed for more than just a chaste good night kiss on the cheek.

For his part, he lay awake at night thinking of her, of how soft her skin must feel, how she must look with her hair down, how warm her body would feel next to his. Even thoughts of her tormented his dreams in the most delicious way. He dreamt of her head resting on his chest, the wisps of her hair tickling his bare chest, of her hand tenderly reaching up to his cheek and pulling him into a fiery kiss. Of her hands running through his hair pulling him over her. Yes, they needed to set a date as soon as possible.

They decided on April, logic prevailing upon them, what with the reading of the banns and the cold of the winter months. Both hoped that the demands of the house and the planning of their small wedding might take their minds off more _distracting_ things. Deciding that they should call it a night, that tomorrow comes soon enough, Mr. Carson placed his glass on the table and took Mrs. Hughes glass from her, clasping both of her hands in his. He pulled her close, but not so close that she would be shocked at the improper desire that coursed through him at the mere touch of her. He leaned down and made to kiss her cheek but at the last second she turned and his lips grazed hers. He released her hands and immediately they settled on her hips while her left hand came to rest softly on his face caressing his cheekbone. They kissed gently for a long moment before pulling back, her hand gliding from his face down the starched front of his shirt to his chest. She patted him casually and with a mischievous smile bid him sweet dreams.

TBC… thank you for your support. Reviews are always appreciated. x


	4. Changes

**A/N: Gentle Spoilers for Season 6. However, these spoilers have been released in the press so they aren't really spoilers are they?**

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The winter of 1925 found the Butler and the Housekeeper quite busy as they attended to the business of not just one house but two houses. At the Abbey, Mr. Carson grumbled incessantly. With only two footman and His Lordship pushing for further reductions in the staff, Mr. Carson huffed and blustered about falling standards. Mrs. Hughes gently tried to remind him that she only had two housemaids and poor Mrs. Patmore had no kitchen maids so he might as well get used to the way things were done nowadays. Even though the bluntness of her words came concealed in honeyed tones of concern, Mr. Carson felt very little solace, especially when Lord Grantham suggested that perhaps Downton no longer needed the services of its underbutler. Though Mr. Carson held no great fondness for Mr. Barrow, he could hardly deny the prestige of Downton's having an underbutler among its ranks. "Is Downton to become just another country house like every other?" he lamented to Mrs. Hughes.

The New Year brought with it many changes to the Abbey, the engagement of the butler and housekeeper being but one of them. In January, they had seen Mr. Branson and Miss Sybbie off. Mrs. Hughes personally supervised her girls, making certain that they carefully packed Miss Sybbie's dresses in tissue paper, wrapped her shoes in cotton cloth, and stowed them in the appointed steamer trunks. Mr. Carson had lent her the use of two hallboys and she made sure that they sorted and packed away the girl's favourite toys. Mrs. Hughes tried not to be too put out with the young lads as they rolled their eyes at one another while they wrapped dolls and delicate tea sets before packing them in straw to ensure they arrived in America safely. It would not do for Miss Sybbie to arrive at her new home only to find her prized possessions shattered into pieces.

Mr. Branson was not the only member of the family that left the Abbey that winter, for in February Lady Edith and little Marigold took their leave and boarded the train to London. While Lady Mary showed great sadness at Mr. Branson's departure, she showed very little interest in the fact that her remaining sister moved to London to take over Mr. Gregson's publishing company. Mr. Carson attributed this to the fact that Lady Mary was busy with her increased role in running of the estate while Mrs. Hughes simply believed that Lady Mary was relieved to have her sister out of sight.

As for the other house, their house, the one on Brouncker Road, Mr. Carson shouldered the responsibility for supervising the workman as they made the necessary repairs to "get the house up to snuff" as Mrs. Hughes put it. Mr. Carson had negotiated a fair wage with the estate workmen to make the miscellaneous repairs. They repaired cracks in walls and a cracked door casing in one of the guest rooms and applied a fresh coat of paint to the walls. While Mr. Carson made most of the decisions regarding repairs and purchases, Mrs. Hughes chose paint colours and furnishings; a nice cream for the bedrooms and a cheery pale yellow for the kitchen. As a wedding gift, Her Ladyship generously extended to Mrs. Hughes the offer of perusing the attics in order to select some of Abbey's old furnishings for their new house. Mr. Carson did have one surprise for his intended. He was especially proud the day that the workmen installed a new, white porcelain Aga range and removed the old heavy, grease laden, black one. He hoped that she would be happy with his choice.

One morning, Mrs. Hughes departed the linen cupboard to hear Mrs. Patmore's voice becoming more and more animated. Hoping to go unnoticed, Mrs. Hughes attempted quietly to pass by the kitchen until Mrs. Patmore saw her and called her aside. The cook had once again begun to lament the newly installed refrigerator and the myriad of other modern conveniences that Her Ladyship had purchased in order to make her job easier. At the end of Mrs. Patmore's tirade, Mrs. Hughes was happy to find her fiancé looking for her in the servants' corridor.

"Mrs. Hughes, I was wondering if I might have a word," he asked quietly.

"Of course, Mr. Carson," she answered. "How can I help?"

"Well, with Lady Edith in London and Lady Mary and His Lordship visiting with the estate farmers tomorrow, I thought that we might take a moment to visit the house," he suggested.

"That sounds very nice," she agreed. "I'll pack a hamper." She noticed that butler seemed pleased with her answer but before they went their separate ways, the housekeeper wanted to ask her own question. Saint Valentine's Day was just around the corner and since they were to be married in April, she did not see what harm it would do to ask such a simple but meaningful request.

"I've been thinking," she began carefully. "Well, I thought that since we are engaged, to be married in a matter of months, that perhaps you might call me Elsie."

Wondering what had come over the usually sensible housekeeper, the butler's eyebrows raised to his hairline and with a tilt of his head, he took a sharp glance into the crowded servant's hall. "Whatever are you thinking? Not here. Not at work," he blustered.

"It's not as if you haven't called me by my Christian name before," she wisely pointed out. "I _was_ head housemaid when I arrived at Downton and you were already butler."

"But it…it's different now," he spoke in a low voice.

Her eyes narrowed, unsure if she understood his meaning. Pushing just a bit she inquired, "How so?"

"Mrs. Hughes, because now…" he stammered, his hand tugging at his waistcoat.

"….I hardly think….,"she interrupted. The housekeeper stopped any further argument when she saw the distress in her husband-to-be's face. She had seen the look before, the pleading eyes begging her to acknowledge the truth of his feelings even if he could not put them into words quite yet. When she realized exactly what he had meant when he had told her that things were different now, she wanted to reach out, touch his arm, smooth her fingers across it, and calm his fears but she knew that she could not. Not with their charges sitting so near but instead, she wanted him know that she understood. "Mr. Carson," she continued quietly and with a small smile, "I can wait."

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 **TBC… Thank you for you readership, reblogs on Tumblr, and reviews here. Reviews are most appreciated. x**


	5. Worries

It seemed as if she spent most of her time sitting at her desk; her back perfectly, artificially straight, her corset digging in, lengthening her ribcage, pushing her hips into the same wooden swivel chair that she'd sat in for decades. From that desk, that chair, she had poured over miles of ledgers, linen rotas, and order slips; counselled scores of young housemaids on maintaining their virtue and nursed the cuts and bruises of footmen and dried the tears of young homesick hallboys. From that desk, she had directed a household, been a mother to other women's children, become a friend to the cook, and the confidant to the butler.

As she squinted at the columns and rows in front of her, her pencil pressing into a harsh point on the page, Mrs. Hughes began to think of what her life would be life outside of the Abbey's walls. Whether she dared admit it or not, the Abbey was safe; she knew where she stood in the chain of command, where she stood with Mrs. Patmore, with Anna, even with the Granthams.

She thought that she knew where she stood with _him_ ; they were the best of friends, confidants sharing a quiet word when house slept in the late hours. She wondered if there would ever be anything more, especially after the day at Brighton. She thought he'd retire while she continued to work, that he'd live in his house or maybe ask her to manage it. She thought that's where they stood, until his proposal and he knocked the wind from her sails. But then, she caught her breath and the seas calmed, the ship was righted.

She pulled the pencil from the page and brought the top of it to rest between her teeth. A terrible habit her mother used to tell her; girls ought not to chew on the end of pencils like that.

Though Mrs. Hughes told Mr. Carson that she would wait for him to call her by her Christian name, truth told, she longed to hear her name fall from his lips. In fact, she longed for many things, the brush of his hand against hers, the press of his knee against hers under the table in the servant's hall, perhaps. Though he had not explicitly said, she thought that she understood why he could not bring himself to say it at work; he didn't want to muddle their work with their private life. Their private life. That idea alone made her think on things that she had tried, with difficulty, to push to the back of her mind.

The task had been easy enough while the house had been a whir of activity but as the comings and goings of the house finally settled, Mrs. Hughes had time to wonder about a great many things whether she wanted to or not. With Lady Edith and Mr. Branson gone and Lady Mary concentrating on her new position as estate manager rather than on a new suitor, Mrs. Hughes had never seen the upstairs so quiet. Except when the Dowager visited, of course, and once she bit back a smile when she heard Andy remark to Mr. Barrow that the atmosphere in the Library resembled that of a street brawl ready to commence. Unfortunately, Mr. Carson heard Andy's offhand comment and gave the lad a dressing down for which Mrs. Hughes thought him quite undeserving.

While she worried over staff reductions, she worried more over Mr. Carson worrying, and she still fretted over Anna and Mr. Bates, concerned that they might never have a moment's peace, that another witness might come forward. Though troubled about those she loved, Mrs. Hughes was anxious about her own future most of all. She could do nothing about the staff changes, they were all at the mercy of Lord Grantham and the times in which they lived, and all she could do for the Bateses was to offer her support and to pray, both of which she did diligently.

But it was her own future that plagued Mrs. Hughes thoughts more and more. Though tied to Mr. Carson and secure enough in the idea that she would have a husband, a home, and an income, she wondered what she would do if the Granthams suddenly turned them out. How would _he_ , or herself for that matter manage their days without the regiment of the house. While he was bound up in tradition and she very much less so, they were people of routine, of schedule. She wondered what she would find to do with no maids to direct, dinner parties to plan, accounts to balance. What would she do without the noise of the servant's hall and daily cup of tea that she enjoyed with Mrs. Patmore? Would she miss the weight of the chatelaine at her hip? The jingle of the keys that hung from it signalling her authority?

She had never really pictured her retirement; she'd never had the luxury of doing so but reality pressed upon her the need to do so now. She scribbled down in her ledger a list of tasks and a line of numbers that came to represent what might be an average day in her retirement. She figured that she could have their house, how her heart fluttered at the notion of _their_ house, cleaned top to bottom in two hours. Stove scrubbed, floor mopped, bathroom cleaned, and rooms dusted. It might take longer on washday. Three hours, perhaps after she'd stripped linens from the beds – the beds – thoughts of beds, and one bed in particular, had begun to occupy her thoughts more often.

She and Mr. Carson had never fully discussed the exact nature of their marriage. They loved one another she was sure of that; she knew that she loved him, had for a long time, and she knew that he loved her. However, she had begun to wonder exactly what he would expect from her. Oh, he would expect her to cook his meals and keep the house tidy, to darn his socks and keep their books. He would offer his arm on their way to church on Sundays and on walks into the village; of course, he'd expect her to receive guests and make a hospitable home. But what else might he expect?

Perhaps, she mused, he might expect a loving companionship; an extension of what they already shared. And at their ages, what would be so wrong with that? To sit at the end of the evening, sipping a nice sherry, and then retiring off to bed. Separately. She bit down on the pencil that she had brought back to her lip.

Caught up in her own thoughts, Mrs. Hughes did not hear the knock at her sitting room door or the clatter of teacups on the tray as Mrs. Patmore set it down on the nearby table. Only when Mrs. Patmore called her name twice did Mrs. Hughes startle and with a surprised expression turn toward the cook.

"I'm sorry Mrs. Patmore, I didn't realize it was time for our tea," Mrs. Hughes admitted.

"That much I can tell," the cook replied sympathetically as she waved the housekeeper off and began to pour, pushing a cup of tea toward her friend. "What's got you so distracted?"

"Oh, it's nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing."

"I was just thinking about what life will be like once Mr Carson and I marry," Mrs Hughes answered with an uncertain smile.

This look of trepidation was not lost on the perceptive cook who leaned in closer, stretching slightly across the table, and looked the housekeeper squarely in the eye. "Are you getting cold feet Mrs. Hughes because that's perfectly normal and ….."

"Oh, heavens no," Mrs. Hughes interrupted the cook with a dismissive wave of her hand and a nervous laugh. She did not have cold feet about the wedding that much was true; it was the wedding night and every night after that of which she was unsure.

"Mr Carson hasn't…"

"Oh, no, no. Everything is fine," Mrs. Hughes tried her best to sound reassuring but the cook was not convinced.

"Then what is it?"

This was not a discussion that Mrs. Hughes wished to have with anyone, let alone the cook. The only other person in the house that she ever discussed personal matters with was Mr. Carson and she certainly could never approach him with her concerns. She sighed deeply and then pressed her lips together before continuing.

"Well, I do wonder what Mr. Caron's expectations are? What I mean to say is that he still calls me Mrs. Hughes even though we are engaged. I wonder if he continue will call me that once we're married?"

The cook's confused look made a flustered Mrs. Hughes feel disconcerted even more so, as if suddenly she was speaking in riddles.

"What I mean is….does he want Mrs. Hughes the housekeeper or Elsie, a wife?"

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TBC…..thank you all for following, reading, and reviewing; for reblogging on Tumblr. Reviews are appreciated.


	6. Margaux

Mr. Carson rested the ledger on a nearby table and settled himself on an old, worn, leather-covered stool in a far corner of the wine cellar. One of his favourite places at the Abbey, the quiet solitude of the wine cellar allowed the butler to reflect on the day's events or simply to not think at all if he wished.

While Mrs. Hughes found the confines of her sitting room particularly comforting, a calm port in the storm of upheaval, as of late Mr. Carson found himself escaping to the wine cellar in order to contemplate the changes that were occurring not only in the house, but also in his life. While the house was changing, staff resigning, cuts being made, he found comfort in the fact that Mrs. Hughes remained steadfast by his side. He had once told her that he knew that she would never leave him. Then, it was a wish, a plea cloaked in statement of hope. Though she had not answered him with a with a roll of the eyes and an "of course not" or a comforting "don't be silly Mr. Carson, I would never leave you," he knew that when she had turned down the farmer, the nice man with the coat that was too tight and the red face, that she would never leave. Over the years, Mr. Carson had often wondered why she turned Joe Burns down but in the end, he decided that it did not matter because what mattered was that she had agreed to be his wife.

As Mr. Carson catalogued His Lordship's wine, carefully lifting bottles from the wooden crates, inspecting them, and inscribing their particulars into his ledger, he thought of what life with Mrs. Hughes might be like after they married. Visions of her, smiling eyes, teasing words, affectionate prodding, soothing fingers gently smoothing, grasping tightly to his hand when he became flustered; this he could all see so clearly. Their house on Brouncker Road, visions of her standing, sleeves pushed up, hands plunged deep into a sinkful of warm, soapy wash water, humming a tune as she scrubbed the supper dishes while he stood beside her, dried and stacked them; the things that married people do. Before he realized it, he felt his lips tug into a contented smile. Perhaps leaving the Abbey might not be so hard with her by his side.

He pictured every room in their little cottage. The sitting room with a cozy fire, their enjoying a small glass of sherry at the end of the day, together on their settee, no longer a table between them. Perhaps, he would reach out, take her hand as they discussed what they had done with their day or discuss nothing at all. Maybe he would read while she mended his shirt where he snagged the sleeve on the thorn of a rose bush in their garden. Yes, he could envision a happy home with Mrs. Hughes.

Then, his mind wondered to other places, other rooms of their house. He had tried desperately not to think of the bedrooms of their house, one bedroom in particular. During the day, when he could occupy his mind with the tasks of being butler, Mr. Carson pushed away thoughts of the future Mrs. Carson. He did not think of how her hair would look hanging in a braid over her shoulder, how the delicate skin of her neck might smell like lavender or lilac, and how her nightgown might reveal more to him than he ever dared to dream he would ever see. No, he did not think of these things then.

But when the house went quite or he escaped to the seclusion of the wine cellar, he found it more difficult to control his thoughts. He wondered if she slept on the right or left side of the bed, if she liked one blanket or two covering her at night. Would she would like him sleeping against her, his arm wrapped around her waist, or perhaps her head resting comfortably in the soft dip of his shoulder? He imagined her hand resting on his heart, her wedding ring glistening in the moonlight and how he might lift her hand to his lips to kiss the ring he had placed there in front of God and their family.

Then panic gripped his heart and he wondered if he should situate himself far to his side of the bed to allow her space. He wondered if she would want to share a bed at all, perhaps she would want to sleep apart. He would place no demands on her if that was what she wanted. Drawn from his distractions, he suddenly felt the pen slide across the page, making a nasty black mark, a careless mistake on the immaculate ledger. Mistakes were unlike him; everyone knew that Carson never made mistakes. Except, he chided himself, waiting so long to admit that he loved Mrs. Hughes.

As Mr. Carson lifted a bottle of margaux from one of the crates, he suddenly found himself drawn back to the night of his proposal to Mrs. Hughes. He had been overcome when she had agreed to marry him, shocked that she was surprised that he had asked her. Did the woman not know of his feelings for her? Had he been so opaque with her that she had reason to doubt him?

"What's that?" a voice called from the doorway

Mr. Carson's head snapped up at the intrusion. Usually, no one dared interrupt him in the wine cellar. Caught off guard and realizing that he had been caught staring at the bottle, he cleared his throat before replying to the cook.

"Oh, it's a bottle of margaux, Mrs. Patmore. A very nice vintage." He smiled as he turned to place it in the appropriate slot along the wall. Turning back to the cook, he continued. "You see a margaux comes from a region in France where the soil is quite full of gravel. It forces the vines to grow deep into the soil so they must become very strong but the wine that is produced is very fragrant, soft, delicate….very feminine."

Mrs. Patmore smiled and shook her head fondly at the butler. "Are you sure that you're describing wine Mr. Carson?"

"I beg your pardon?" Mr. Carson asked, his brows knitted in utter confusion.

"If you only understood women the way you understand wine," Mrs. Patmore tried to explain. "I think that it's time we had a talk."

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With Mrs. Patmore's help, Mr. Carson realized that while Mrs. Hughes seemed to anticipate his every move, always two steps ahead of him, that when all was said and done she was a woman, a woman that needed to be loved and cherished. For years, she had done the doting, the cherishing, and the reassuring and now it was his turn. His turn to tell her exactly what he wanted, expected of her and what she could expect from him and if she was still agreeable to their arrangement then so be it.

He led the housekeeper into his pantry and closed the door behind them. They stood in the centre of the room for a long moment, the air in the room heavy, pregnant with anticipation. The housekeeper knew that the cook had confronted butler and she felt quite guilty about having put Mr. Carson before the firing squad. If only they could speak of these matters themselves.

"Mr. Carson, let me say….."

"….I've been a fool," he interrupted with a wave of his hand. Mrs. Hughes's face flashed into confusion as Mr. Carson began to speak again. "I mean to say that I've not been as forthcoming with you as I should have been about our understanding."

Mrs. Hughes felt her stomach sink. Obviously, her worst fears were true; Mr. Carson wanted a companion for his wife and she was the fool to expect anything any different. He wanted the security of a gentle loving friendship in his dotage and truth told she did not wish to be alone either. She'd never let on that she was devastated, no, she'd tell him that Mrs. Patmore had misunderstood her and that their arrangement needn't change at all.

Just as she was about to speak, to put him, to put them both out of their misery, when Mr. Carson closed the distance between them and was standing so very close to her that she could feel the rise and fall of his chest against her.

"I've always thought that you knew what I was thinking before I said it but I suppose that I was wrong on that account. I'm sorry." Mr. Carson reached down to draw Mrs. Hughes's face into his hands, cradling it softly, reverently with all of the love he could show her. "I asked you to marry me because I love you." Pausing for a moment, he needed to make certain she understood. "Elsie…completely in every way a man loves his wife."" He watched Mrs. Hughes close her eyes and breathe in deeply, a smile blossoming from her lips.

Closing his eyes, savouring the moment that he'd put everything right between them and that he had declared the full scope of his love for her, he gently pulled her face toward him and placed a kiss to her forehead. As he felt her arms slip around his waist, she told him that she loved him and in that moment he knew that though they would disagree from time to time, that she would push and pull him into a future of which he was frightened, the one thing that he was sure of was that they would be together.

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TBC…..thank you so much for the reviews and support. I am so sorry I have not responded. We've had guests at my house and it has not left much time for anything else. Know that I appreciate the Tumblr reblogs, readership, reviews, and general encouragement.


	7. A Soft Answer

"A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger."

Standing in the middle of her sitting room, lost in thought and staring at her own reflection in the looking glass, the housekeeper thought back on Reverend Travis's sermon. Today certainly was not the first time she had heard the old proverb; it was not even the first time that she had heard Reverend Travis preach it. No, one of her earliest memories was hearing the clear voice of her mother teaching her to hold her tongue, to answer softly. It was a lesson she never quite learned.

Donal Fraser had teased Becky to the point of tears and a twelve-year-old Elsie had given him the sharp edge of her tongue and a jarring slap to his face. Having sent a red-faced Donal home, Margaret Hughes dried Becky's tears and settled her near the barn with a pair of small kittens to watch over. Margaret and her elder daughter settled themselves on a swing and while keeping an eye on Becky and the kittens, she reminded Elsie of the virtues of a quiet word and a kind nature.

Now as a mature woman of some years, the words rang through her ears again, not in her mother's voice but in the nasally righteous tones of the vicar. For an instant, she wondered if she and Mr. Carson had been caught out. Had their "little disagreements," as he called them, had become fodder for the town gossips? Why else would Reverend Travis expound on this particular scripture just as they were negotiating the plans for their wedding?

She had hoped that the words had registered on the man who had sat next to her; the moment the words tumbled from Reverend Travis's mouth, the housekeeper discreetly cut her eyes in the direction of the butler. She hoped that had the vicar's words held any meaning for him, she might see the faintest hint of recognition play across his face. Perhaps, he would discreetly look down to his shoes, fidget with his waistcoat, or glance in her direction and with an apologetic and tender smile. Yet, she saw nothing unusual, nothing to suggest that the vicar or the hand of Providence had imparted a fresh revelation upon Mr. Carson.

Brushing into place a few loose strands, she ran her hand across her hair and thought of his flirtatious words from the year before. How the richness of his voice, the sweetness of his joy at their being back in agreement over the war memorial business made her suddenly flustered; made her look to the glass to see that her hair was tidy. She shook her head a little. They had always bickered but to be in such disagreement now when they should be happy, left her sad, angry and confused. She had tried to speak softly, but harshness seemed to fuel many of their conversations now.

She wanted a small wedding, just their friends, and their _family_. Naturally, he wanted something grand and once the family had gotten the bit between their teeth, it seemed that she was left reeling; a bride with no say in planning her own wedding. She had planned to wear a dress, something nice but not extravagant; something she already owned and hoped that perhaps Anna or Miss Baxter might spruce up. She hadn't the money for a new dress, something worn once and put into a box only to be stored in a trunk, forgotten by everyone except herself. No, any extra money needed to be put away; for Becky's care, for the repairs for the house on Brouncker Road, for their retirement. But then Her Ladyship caught wind of it, said that Mrs. Hughes deserved something special for her wedding day. The housekeeper was thankful for Her Ladyship's offer of a new dress, she was, but somehow this simple wedding between two simple people had become something unrecognizable. Something pretentious and unwieldly that left them in disagreement. Never had Mr. Carson been so obstinate, so unmovable, and so unwilling to disappoint the family. Could he not recognize that she was the bride? That it was her wedding to plan?

"Mrs. Hughes," a voice called from the doorway.

The housekeeper startled; pulled from her thoughts, she quickly turned toward the door to find Mr. Carson.

"What is it Mr. Carson?"

"I thought that I would tell you that Lady Mary has offered to host the reception in the Great Hall," the butler replied cautiously. They had not spoken since returning to the Abbey after church service, both still smarting over exactly how elaborate the wedding would be. He recognized the clipped words, the exasperated tones; her mood had not improved.

Her well of patience almost gone dry, the housekeeper glared at the butler, her hands clasped firmly in front of her, knuckles gone white with pressure.

"Did she?"

"She did," he replied, tugging on his waistcoat. "She was quite insistent."

* * *

TBC… I hope that everyone is enjoying all the spoilers! I know that I am. Soon this story will of course begin to deviate away from what we see in canon. What will their life be like in retirement? How will they adjust? These are the things that this story will focus on soon. I apologize for the lack of updates…..life. If you are following What's Past Is Prologue, I hope to update soon-ish. Thank you for all your support. I'd love to know what you think. x


	8. Her Husband

This story is going to change a bit from this point forward. Since we got that wonderful wedding, I am not going to cover it here but instead I am going to give snippets of the life of their marriage and retirement. The next two chapters: Her Husband and His Wife have been published separately as one-shots but are put into this story as they seem to fit my new take on this longer story. Thank you for having reviewed these. A third (new update) "Astonished" will be added soon.

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No man has ever looked at her the way that _he_ looks at her, the way that he is looking at her now.

Certainly, no hall boy nor footman ever has; not even when she was young and her figure firm, hips slim, skin smooth, her face not lined with wrinkles. No, they may have leered at her with dark, dead squinty eyes and a hint of mischief playing about their lips as they hid behind a door or around a corner waiting for her to pass by. They waited, reaching out to grab a handful of her skirt in a vain attempt to pull her into a corner to sneak a hurried kiss. That is until they met with the backside of her hand across her their faces.

No, no hallboy nor footman ever looked her the way that he looks at her, his eyes so soft with love and devotion that it makes her question why they've waited so long. Why it took a day at the seaside for her to reach for his hand, challenge him to love her, to acknowledge openly that theirs might be more than collegial affection.

Not even Joe Burns looked at her the way the way that _he_ looks at her. The farmer had been, is still, a good and kind man. He cared about her she didn't doubt that then and still doesn't. But she knows that Joe wanted a farmer's wife, someone to help run the farm. Someone to help slop the pigs and tend the chickens, to manage his books, to clean his house and wash his clothes, and to have Sunday dinner on the table after church. He wanted someone to rub lineament into his sore shoulder after a hard day's work and warm his bed at night. He was lonely, but she was not.

She had Downton and she had _him_ , whether she realized it then or not. She didn't love Joe Burns, not in the way that matters, not in the way that wives should love their husbands.

Not like she loves this man who hovers above her, his eyes locked with hers, soft murmurs tumbling from his lips; he's repeating the vows they've spoken only hours earlier. His nimble fingers gently tugging at the strings of her nightgown, lowering them reverently down her shoulders. He exposes freckled flesh that no man save the doctor has ever seen and he smiles and hums in appreciation. He lowers his lips to hers, a soft kiss before dipping lower, kissing a trail down the slope of her neck, the meandering lines of her shoulder. He brings his gaze back to meet hers as he begins to pull the nightgown lower exposing her inch by inch and she watches him, as he undresses her, as the satin of her nightgown slides across the plain of her stomach, over the flair of her hips, down the firmness of her thighs. Finally, she is bare before him. Exposed. And he does not seem to notice the scars and wrinkles, the signs of age that so troubled her.

No man has ever looked at her the way her husband is looking at her, his eyes dark, burning with hot desire that makes her feel simultaneously both comforted and drunk with power, intoxicated with the knowledge that she has done this. That she has caused this reaction in him, that she is the only one he desires; that hers is the body that he worships here in the stillness of their room and between the sheets of their marital bed, and it makes her question why she ever worried that she couldn't please him at this late stage of their lives.

She watches as he removes his pyjama top, sliding it over the broad chest that she had imagined, dreamed about when she fretted over what their married life would be like; when she wondered what he might expect of her. Her imaginings pale in comparison to what she sees as his shirt falls away and he folds it across the foot of the bed. She sees taut muscles that stretch and move and flex; a faint patch silver hair that catches in the moonlight that peeks around the drapes. Suddenly, she feels compelled to touch him, but is forced to wait as he shuffles out of his pyjama bottoms; he tries to be discreet. He doesn't rush, doesn't want her to feel shocked by his evident anticipation, by what she is doing to him and she is thankful for his concern, for the gentle, loving man that he is.

And when he settles himself, pulling the sheet back over them, once again he looks at her with an adoration transfused with lust and confirms that he not only loves her but that he wants her, desires her; he needs her. They have waited so long for this, to become fully invested in one another. As they move together, this first time as man and wife, she knows that he needs them to become one, needs for them, in this moment to be in agreement mind, body, soul.

It is her affirmation that he covets. The small sighs of pleasure that rise from somewhere primal, her fingers carding through his hair then dropping gently to caress his cheek, a lone finger tracing the along the soft curve of his lips, spur him on and she sees in his gaze everything that he is too much of gentleman to say aloud. She knows that he would never shock her with the words that he is thinking but she recognises his passion all the same, sees it etched in the lines of pleasure that tug at his lips, the crinkles around his eyes as he regards her with wonder that she accepted him and became his wife.

The city hums with excitement outside, a never-ending cacophony of sounds, but they hear none of it. Gentle passionate words of love and devotion, deep kisses, bodies moving effortlessly in rhythm with one another, these are the things that matter to them.

She feels a fool for having put him off, for not having settled their wedding date sooner when there was nothing at all of which to be frightened or worried.

She loves him, this man. Her husband.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading. If you've a moment, I'd love to know what you think.


	9. His Wife

This story is going to change a bit from this point forward. Since we got that wonderful wedding, I am not going to cover it here but instead I am going to give snippets of the life of their marriage and retirement. The previous two chapter: Her Husband and this chapter His Wife have been published separately as one-shots but are put into this story as they seem to fit my new take on this longer story. Thank you for having reviewed these. A third (new update) "Astonished" will be added soon.

* * *

He's hurt her feelings.

This is the first time that he has hurt Elsie. The first time that he's gone and really put his foot in it since he placed his ring on her finger and she took his name for her own. His overwhelming sense of love for her has only grown with each day and he still wonders why on earth she agreed to entrust her life's happiness to him. But now, with a single misplaced huff, a disparaging eye, and a suggestion that sounded a little too much like a command, he's wounded her pride, cast aspersions on her role as a wife. And it is the last thing in the world he wants to do because she is all he has ever wanted and rather than her fretting that she's disappointed him, he knows that it is he who has disappointed her.

He's been harsh with Mrs. Hughes many times, called her a woman of no standards, even gone so far as to accuse her of not pulling her weight when he thought she was lagging behind the rest of the staff. He still remembers the weak smile she offered when he told her that he had made up his mind to leave her and Downton behind to run Lady Mary's house at Haxby Park. The sadness behind her eyes haunts him still and he wonders now if she'd felt something between them then, something more than simply the potential loss of a very dear friend.

He's always been the one with harsh words, the one to bluster and posture, to puff out his chest in a pompous display of authority only to have her diffuse his ungallant behaviour with a glance or tsk of exasperation or perhaps a pithy retort. He has always been confident that after the dust settles, she will receive the peace offering he will lay at her feet, the promise of a small sherry and quiet conversation. That he will desperately seek absolution and she will always grant it.

Mrs. Hughes understands him. She knows that most of Carson's bluster and fretting is not directed at her anyway. He is simply working out his frustrations with the house, things that he cannot control and she is there to take the brunt of it. She is the only one who really knows him, knows that his bark is most certainly worse than his bite. After all, he knows that she will never leave him.

However, things are different now. She is no longer just Mrs. Hughes but Elsie, his wife. He is no longer an old bachelor, no longer simply Carson, but he is Charles, husband of Elsie. As his wife clears and washes the dishes from their disastrous meal, he sits in his comfortable chair in the cosiness of their cottage, wondering how he could be so insensitive over something so trivial.

His knuckles turn white as he balls his fist, grinds it into the palm of his other hand. He's not meant to be grumpy, not meant to hurt her feelings when she's been so eager to place the fruits of her labour before him expecting her new husband to acknowledge her efforts. He knows now that he barely acknowledged the busy workings of her hands, the care with which she made sure that everything was within his reach; how she had taken time to prepare one of his favourite meals and laid a proper table to his exacting standards.

There is no butler's book to teach him all of the things that he should know about his new bride. Mrs. Hughes is confident; Elsie needs reassurances. But what had he done? Rather than giving her a kind word, thanking her for her efforts and the fine home she was making for them, he had blustered on about problems at the Abbey. Blustered about things over which he has no control. And she had done what she always does. She listened patiently to his pontificating on how Downton Abbey was changing and not for the better.

He complained of housemaids who are leaving service and that they've no kitchen maids and only one hall boy. He is pleased for Anna and Mr. Bates, knows that they have wanted a family for so long, but that means they will likely be leaving service as well. Lady Edith is courting that young man and Lady Mary seems intrigued with yet another dark haired suitor. There has even been talk of Poor Old Molesley leaving to become a schoolteacher. And Sergeant Willis. He has become such a regular visitor to the house, that Carson wonders who he will arrest and take away next. And now the family is planning to allow the public into the house. They will pay a fee to enter by the front door so that they can gape and gawk and allow their sticky fingered children to touch priceless antiques. He does not like any of it. Is it any wonder he has come home wound up?

Charles scrubs a hand across his face and through his hair and he knows what he must do. He must make things right, admit that he was upset about other things and beg her forgiveness.

He makes his way from their sitting room into the kitchen where she is sorting dishes and washing up. Her back is to him and he is glad because he is nervous; she makes him feel so many things now. She has opened him to so many thoughts and feelings, emotions that he has previously kept locked away and if he is honest, it is equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.

"Elsie," he asks quietly. When she does not turn, does not really acknowledge that he has spoken to her, he moves cautiously closer. "Elsie, I wanted to say….ehm….I wanted to say that I shouldn't have spoken out of turn. I was so upset about the changes at the house….."

His voice trails off as he hopes that she will turn, face him with kind eyes and a bright smile, and tell him that she understands, that there is nothing to worry about. But her silence is all the more telling than any pithy remark or exasperated sigh followed by "All right, Charles." He knows that she is not going to help him out of this one, that it is his mess to clean up.

He plucks up the courage to speak again, when he notices how she lifts her hands from the dishwater, sleeves rolled to her elbows, she pushes a strand of loose hair back from her face and then continues on her task. He wishes that he had been the one to push the loose tendril away from her face and to then tilt her face upward and place a gentle kiss to her lips. If only his apology could be that simple.

"Elsie, I never meant to suggest that you weren't…well, when I suggested that you ask Mrs. Patmore for some advice, I never meant to hurt your feelings."

No more did the words pass across his lips than he saw her shoulders collapse in on themselves. He watches her shake, a hand reaching for a dishtowel and then covering her mouth. Rushing to her side, he takes her in his arms and turns her toward him burying her face against his chest.

"Oh, Elsie, I'm sorry, you know how I get when I'm worried and upset. I didn't mean to sound so harsh," he whispers against her ear. "I shouldn't have taken my frustrations out on you."

Just when he is about to pull her closer, beg her forgiveness, reassure her that she is everything that he wants and that he is a foolish old man who speaks before he thinks, she pulls back and looks up at him with glistening eyes. His stomach sinks knowing that he has disappointed her, that he has been the one to make her feel disparaged in some way.

"It was horrible," she manages solemnly, her bottom lip drawn between her teeth.

"Yes, what I said was horrible," Charles adds as he tucks a tendril of hair behind her ear. "I don't have the right to….."

Putting her hand to his chest and patting, laughter overtakes her once again. This time he sees the merriment in her eyes and tears emerge once again from amusement not anger.

"You misunderstand me, Mr. Carson. I didn't say that _you_ were horrible," she laughs. "I said that _it_ was horrible. That was the worst roast lamb I've ever eaten. And for the record, I think I will have a word with Mrs. Patmore tomorrow."

"I _am_ sorry, Elsie," he offers again as he places a reverent kiss to her lips.

"I know, Charles," she replies returning his kiss with a little more fervour.

"Ehm, the dishes can wait. I'll do them in the morning before we leave for the Abbey if you'd like to ehm," he stumbles. "That is if you would like to retire early this evening."

"I don't know how, but you managed to make that sound a little risqué," she teases as she threads her fingers through his hair.

"And if I did? We're getting on Mrs. Carson you and I. We can afford to live a little."

* * *

Thank you for reading. I'd love to know what you think. Thanks to Hogwarts-Duo for her helpful suggestions.


	10. Astonished

His hands still hers, stops her from continuing the movement of removing the pins from her hair. He says nothing as he finishes the task that she began. This is the first time that he has done this, removing the pins from her hair, gently releasing the tightly wound locks from their confinement. But this has been a day and a night of firsts.

She never thought he would do it; never be so bold to join her in sitting in the library even though they were the only ones home, alone. Once, Mrs. Patmore told Elsie that she had him wrapped around her little finger and she'd scoffed at the time because if she had, he'd have already proposed by then instead of stuttering around about business ventures. Nevertheless, with one flick of the wrist, one beckoning look, her husband joined her on the settee in the library and enjoyed it. He even when so far as to lean back and encourage her to do so. That astonished her completely. She wondered then, still wonders now, if he might have wrapped his arm around her, encouraged a little snuggle if Mr. Barrow had not interrupted them.

She watches him in the mirror; watches as he studies her while carefully removing the pins and unwinding her hair, allowing the silken curls to slip through his fingers. Though the scene is so very innocent, he makes her feel cherished, safe, and electric all at once.

He continues on his task and she thinks back on that little plan that she and Mrs. Patmore hatched. She was not convinced that it would work. She wondered if he would take the contents of the basket Mrs. Patmore put together and prepare their supper or if he'd insist that they walk back up to the Abbey, concede defeat, and dine in the servant's hall. Yet to her utter astonishment, he had agreed to it; had agreed to take it in his stride do as she asked.

And it has endeared him to her all the more. Only added to the immeasurable love that she has for him.

When he's removed the last of the pins, placed it with the others in the little porcelain box on her dressing table, she sighs. She wonders if he is going to step away now, make his way to bed, and fall fast asleep. She so badly wants to hold him close, to soothe his ruffled feathers, to love him. But she doubts Mr. Carson is up for any of _that_ tonight being that he couldn't keep his eyes open while at dinner.

Instead, he picks up the brush that lies near the little box and returns to stand behind her. He begins delicately to comb out her hair and still he has said nothing to her, but she hears his breath beginning to fall heavy while her own is growing more unsteady.

She suddenly feels the cool night air on her neck as he gently pushes aside her hair. He draws himself closer to her and she feels the warmth of his lips on her neck, a gentle kiss at the spot that he's learned makes her knees go weak. They have learned so very many things about one another, so many intimate things, beyond what late night conversations over sherry can reveal.

The gentle kiss gives way to several as his fingers slips under the collar of her nightgown and his intentions become clear. He turns her toward him and she sees eyes dark and serious, full of adoration and understanding. He claims her lips in a sweet and tender kiss before she encourages him further and then she finds herself fidgeting at the buttons of his pyjama top. He captures her hand, kisses it, and leads her to bed.

TBC… Thank you for reading. I note of review would be lovely.

"A plotter she may be, but that young man of romance, she's set free."


	11. Confessions

This chapter is filled with angst, realizations, a little confession, and some cuddles too. It deals with people who have a limited emotional vocabulary, who try to find ways to talk through problems without revealing too much yet revealing everything. It is a missing scene and I hope that I've done the characters some measure of justice. TW: Discussion of attempted suicide.

* * *

Of all the things that married life has changed for her, things to which she has had to grow accustomed, sharing a bed has been the easiest of which to adjust.

He does not know it but she covets this time with him when the house is quiet except for his gentle snoring and the tapping of the tree branches against the roof of the house. This is the time when she can look at him and study him without feeling awkward.

The weather is slightly warm out, but they are snuggled under a quilt that her mother had patched together. It is not so thick anymore, a little threadbare in places, but it's one of the only nice things that she has left of her mother's. He has one arm tucked under his pillow crushing it into submission, while his other hand rests in the space between them, fingers curled in tightly against one another.

Sleep usually smoothes the frown from his lips, leaving a contented look of peace playing across his features. But not tonight. Tonight his brow is still furrowed. His are lips pressed tightly together and his hair is all-askew. The bryclcreem is never completely washed out and it causes his hair to ruffle and jut out in all sorts of strange directions. Lying here this way, vulnerable, it doesn't take much for her to see the insecure young man hidden beneath an aging man's façade.

She turns a bit more and reaches out to touch him as if she can smooth away the frustration from his features, as if her touch can melt away his pain. If she can help him she must even in the smallest of ways.

She slides a hand along his forehead and down his cheek, her fingers lovingly glide along the cleft of his chin, but his features do not soften. So she repeats her pattern over and then again. Softly, slowly in the vain attempt to heal him.

It is an exercise in futility.

Then suddenly, just when her fingertips leave him, when she turns away, pulls the covers over her shoulder, and attempts to chase sleep, he reaches for her. His free hand finds purchase along her hip then across the plain of her stomach. And he is pulling her closer.

The warmth of his body next to hers, the way his fingers once gripped tightly unto themselves are now wrapped around her, and how she can feel his steady breath rise and fall against her back brings her comfort. Before long, she is fast asleep.

* * *

"Come back to bed," she calls softly. She gently caresses his cheek, runs her fingers over the soft shell of his ear, down his neck, and over his shoulder.

"You've had a shock. You need to sleep. Go back to bed," he replies quietly.

"And you haven't had?"

"I didn't mean to wake you. I couldn't…I couldn't find the tin of cocoa." His voice trails off; he's tired and there is a hint resignation in his voice, the brokenness of a man struggling with what he's seen.

She gently squeezes his arm, remembering another time she saw him like this. Sad and far away, lost in thought. She releases his arm and quietly moves across their modest kitchen, fetches the tin from atop the metal cupboard near the sink. She wonders if he'd even looked for it. The tin has been in plain sight the entire time.

She scoops coal from the box near the backdoor, then thrusts it into the stove, and takes a match to it. Closing the coal compartment's door, she then busies herself, filling the kettle with water and placing on the burner. She hazards a glance toward her husband, his shoulders are slumped, and he is fidgeting with a torn spot on the corner of the tablecloth. Of course, he would notice the flaw she thinks. She has not had time to mend it and she half expects him to ask why. But he doesn't seem upset by the little tear, the fraying edges. His thoughts are elsewhere.

"Thank you," he says suddenly, his voice piercing the silence that has fallen across the room. He looks up and catches her gaze. He hopes that she knows that he's not speaking of her preparing his cocoa or even sitting up with him but so much more.

She sees the tears in his eyes and knows that he will not let them fall because that is not who he is. He is still so buttoned up, so self-contained and she does not expect him to be anything else. After all, she is not much better. There are still many things she doesn't say; she is learning to open up, learning to share fully her thoughts as well.

Placing the tin of cocoa on the counter and dusts her hands across a cloth. She places her right hand to her hip and rubs it in little circles. Often she is a little a sore during the night, at the end of a long day; getting older means she is feeling her age in all sorts of little ways.

Moving to him, she pulls the chair away from the table and sits beside him, takes his fidgeting hands in hers and stills them. She wonders if he will say anything, how much he will say. She will not press him to say anything at all.

The warmth of her hands brings him instant comfort. She has always had that effect on him. Nothing has changed in that respect. But so much as changed. Changed with the house, changed between them. He loves her so much it frightens him sometimes.

"You shouldn't have had to see that. Let alone clean it up." He sounds sympathetic and angry all at once.

She sighs.

"I thought Miss Baxter should stay with Thomas and I couldn't very well ask Anna to clean the bathroom now could I?" She releases his hands and drops hers into her lap.

He has noticed that Anna has filled out but he has not asked about it. He has assumed that Elsie will tell him if there is anything that he needs to know. But she hasn't yet and so he presses a bit.

"So Anna is….?"

Elsie looks down, fidgets with her hands, smoothes her nightgown. "Yes, I think so. It is becoming quite obvious, but she's not said anything yet."

He hums noncommittally.

"I suppose that means that she'll leave service when the time comes. Lady Edith doesn't have a lady's maid but Lady Mary has different expectations," he muses scrubbing a hand through his hair.

"I suspect that Lady Mary will make due." Elsie sounds a bit harsher than she means to and she offers an apologetic smile when his head snaps up sharply. She doesn't mean to argue with him

She rises from her chair and steps close to him, places a kiss to his forehead. He pulls her close, wrapping his arms around her waist for a moment before she tells him that she must fetch the kettle.

She busies herself preparing their cocoa and he moves to the settee. Charles doesn't switch on the light that sits on the table nearby; the light from the kitchen is enough.

"Here we are," Elsie says, offering him a steaming mug as she sits beside him.

"Mmmm," he hums taking a sip. "Just like my mother used to make," he smiles wistfully.

Elsie fights the urge to tease him, resists the urge to revel in the fact that he has finally conceded that she has done something up to standard. But she doesn't because he has stopped complaining about her cooking, eating every morsel now, with an appreciative smile. And if she were to admit it, her culinary skills have improved, just as everything improves with practice.

They sit in silence for a long while until they hear the wind begin to rustle outside, rain begins to fall, and then the drops begin to crash into the windows with more force. Charles instinctively places his arm around his wife's shoulder and draws her close against his side.

"I never thought Thomas was capable of….."

"Do we ever know what anyone is capable of?"

"Perhaps I might have handled things differently," he muses. "I could have written some letters. Inquired of some butlers I know."

Elsie snuggles closer into him, covers his hand with her own. "We all could have been kinder," she answers. "I know we may not think it, but Thomas has feelings just like the rest of us."

"Do you think Mr. Molesley will make a go of it as a teacher? I'm not sure that I can see it," Charles asks her. He reaches for her left hand, fidgets with her wedding ring.

She knows that he is avoiding talking of the thing that worries him most. She knows because she does the same. Buying houses. Becky. Marital expectations and wifely duties.

"I think that he wants to succeed very much and that's something," she answers. "And Miss Baxter is on his side so that is a great incentive I imagine."

Charles places a kiss to her hair and lingers a moment.

"Did you know that Lady Mary took Master George to see him?" The words hang heavy around them and she knows that he does not mean Mr. Molesley of whom they have just been speaking. She knows that he means Mr. Barrow, Thomas, the under butler whose bloodied and lifeless body she helped to drag down the men's corridor and into his room hours earlier.

"Mrs. Patmore did mention that she gave Master George an orange to take to Thomas. The boy is quite fond of him," she answers quietly.

His silence says everything.

"The boy needs someone to show him fatherly attention and I must say that Thomas seems to adore him. Master George brings out the kindness in him," she finishes.

Charles knows this, has heard it among the other staff. He has heard how Thomas takes time with the boy, how the under-butler is kind and gentle with the lad. How he smiles more and how Master George laughs.

"I imagine Thomas might feel about him the way you feel about Lady Mary."

At this, she feels him stiffen. He doesn't move away, doesn't release his hold on her, but realisation begins to dawn on him that Master George doesn't darken the door of the butler's pantry. The boy does not come to him to play with toy soldiers or for the sweets that he keeps tucked away in the tin in his desk drawer. He had chalked it up to his being too busy, but he knows it is not that. It is not that at all.

He is no longer the father figure, not even the grandfather figure. Because George has a grandfather. Charles knows that his time is fading, that he is of another generation and that his Lady Mary is growing older herself. She does not need him as much as she once did. She is the estate agent now. A career woman in her own right. And she will remarry – one day – and be happy and need his reassurances less and less.

"Do you think that anyone….that Lady Mary might blame…." he does not finish his question because there is no need. Elsie turns and looks him square in the eye.

"I don't presume to know what Lady Mary thinks, but don't go borrowing trouble. Thomas has been unhappy for a long time despite what anyone may have done or said. The only thing that we can do now is to treat him with the respect that we owe any man."

He knows that she is right, but the sting of guilt still niggles at him. He wonders if His Lordship feels much the same. He manages a small smile and nods, pats her hand with his.

"Come on now, let's get back to bed. We've to be at the house in a few hours," she says as she tugs him up from the settee.

As they walk across the room and he switches the kitchen light off, he wonders how it might be to have their days to themselves.

"Perhaps, we could visit our house tomorrow," he offers quietly. "The workmen are finishing and we could begin planning the future."

* * *

TBC… Thank you for reading. Reviews are most appreciated.


	12. Smutty Deliberations of A Curmudgeon

A/N: A little levity after the last chapter. Also, not edited well so please forgive mistakes. A strong T-rating.

The family is upstairs preparing their departure to Mrs. Patmore's scandal-ridden bed and breakfast and Charles hopes that the visit does not sully their reputation nor that of the house in which he serves. He truly worries about such matters even though he knows that his wife is right and that the Abbey, itself, has been riddled with scandal over the years. Scandal of the Crawley's own making. Even his beloved Lady Mary has seen her fair share of scandal if that long ago letter sent by Laird Flintshire's valet is to be believed.

Then there is the little girl who simply appeared one day, brought from Yew Tree Farm and the capable care of the Mrs. Drewe, and installed in the Downton nursery. The little girl, who favours Michael Gregson in appearance and so easily has captivated the heart of Lady Edith, has been a source of idle chatter among the housemaids when they think Mrs. Hughes is not listening.

Many in the house think that he does not _know_ things, that he does not catch on as his wife does. Perhaps he does not catch on as quickly, but he is not a success at his job without having keen powers of observation. Like Mrs. Hughes, he has perfected the art of blending into the background, of hearing snippets of conversation, and piecing them together.

But he's distracted now, his mind flutters away from thoughts of Mrs Patmore's disgrace, and to thoughts of a decidedly more intimate nature. His cheek still burns in the most electrically exhilarating way where his wife kissed him. Kissed him right there in Mrs. Patmore's kitchen where all and sundry might see them. And he wanted so badly to kiss her lips, to taste to tang of her lip colour and to feel the warm silk of her tongue slip across his lips. But she has tortured him, denied him the fullness of his prize, and then stalked off to her sitting room. Bewitching creature.

Now, after he has watched his lovely wife walk away, he is torn between duty and desire. His job requires him to see off the family. While he usually has no trouble setting his mind to the task at hand, he cannot get her out of his thoughts.

He revels in the notion that for once, he has proved her wrong. She has blossomed into the wife he knew that she would be, the woman he has always seen her as. Beautiful, sensual, strong. She is so far removed from the insecure woman who stood in his pantry and confiding her fears that she would be a disappointment to him. Oh, she has been anything but. She is a siren calling him into the tempest. She is his lighthouse safely leading him home.

He climbs the stairs that bridge the engine room of the whole works with the style and show that he revels in. The moment he passes across the threshold into the library, his posture straightens and his stride becomes strong and confident. He is Carson, the man on whom the whole operation depends. Only the woman below stairs holds the real power. Were he leads with bombastic authority, she has claimed power with quiet authority.

She has claimed him on so many levels. She has had his trust for longer than he can remember. Since before she became housekeeper, he always knew that she was the one for a secret or the one for an encouraging word. When he has felt foolish or uncertain, she has propped him up, made him feel worthy.

She has had his heart for almost as long. He believes that he has the upper hand, is head of the house, downstairs, as well as at their cottage. If he were to contemplate it long enough, to be truly introspective like the Greek philosophers that he has read, he knows that she has the upper hand. Her's has been a gradual usurpation of his authority, a coup d'état. As she has taken over his heart, he has allowed it. Though he might bluster, he does not mind, not really. If he did, he'd have put a stop to her meddling years ago. Put a stop to her rummaging through waste bins and listening at grates (and encouraging him to do so). He would never have allowed her to give Molesley permission to take the job at the school when she hadn't the authority to do so. The look on her face brooked no argument at all.

But he is hers now and that makes all the difference.

As he thinks of his wife stating her claim on him, the feel of her lips on his cheek, how she seemed to glow from the inside out, and the look that silently told him there was more to come later, leaves him feeling hot under the collar. He finds himself impatient and wanting the more to come later, now.

Thoughts of undressing her, of peeling away her clothing, occupies his every thought. He imagines his fingertips dancing across the warm alabaster flesh of her bare chest as he slowly unfastens each button of her long nightgown. She still has not bought new ones; still has not ordered from that new catalogue she borrowed from Mrs. Patmore. But he does not mind because he doesn't know a thing about ladies nightgowns and slowly undressing her is part of the fun.

His lips caress her neck in gentle kisses until he makes his way to that spot just behind her ear. The spot that he has learned makes her breathe deeply and call his name in a deep, raspy sigh.

He is very distracted by the thoughts of what comes next. Of her hands are threading through his hair pulling him in for the deepest of kisses and how his hand will graze along her thigh.

Carson closes his eyes hard and swallows. He ties to banish all of these thoughts while he is working.

It is all very unprofessional. Very discomfiting.

His efforts are in vain.

Walking across the great hall, he still feels her hand clutching his shoulder, as she gently drew him to her in the kitchen. Tugging at his waistcoat, Carson is flush with memories of the first time her fingertips curled into the bare flesh of his shoulder as she pulled his hovering body closer to hers. The way she urged him closer, called him to her in the most passionate of ways, while her the fingers of her other hand cupped his cheek, her thumb smoothing across his lips. He remembers the first time his lips glazed across the smooth skin of her breasts and how she encouraged him in his adoration of her. How the warmth of her hips meeting his and her ankle hooking over his upper thigh, how when he first felt the welcoming warmth of…..

Carson coughs and straightens his tie. He feels his whole body flush and he immediately begins to think of the wine ledgers, of columns and rows, things that are orderly and under his control. It will not do for him to appear out of sorts in front of the family.

* * *

He has managed to speak to His Lordship and they have come to an understanding about Mr. Barrow. He's pleased the under butler will be allowed to stay at least for the time being, it takes a weight off his shoulders and absolves him of the guilt he's been carrying since that awful day Miss Baxter found the young man unconscious and bloody in the bathtub.

Carson knows that Lady Mary will be pleased that Thomas is staying on; he knows that Master George will be delighted as well. Things are finally beginning to settle, he thinks. All except for Lady Edith and perhaps and Lord Hexham will find their way back to one another soon enough.

After he sees the Granthams off, Carson's thoughts return to his wife. With the house empty except for Lady Mary and Mr. Branson, he is free once again to allow his mind to wander. He makes his rounds of the rooms and finishes in the library where suddenly he sees himself and his wife sprawled across the crimson sofa that she had convinced him to settle on with her days before.

He sees what might have happened if Mr. Barrow had not interrupted them. How he might have stretched out his arm and pulled Mrs. Carson close to his side. How she might have tucked her head close into his shoulder or to his chest and how he might have dropped sweet kisses to her hair and told her how lovely she looked.

Or maybe he would have reached across and tugged at her hand, pulled her into his lap. Perhaps she might have wrapped one hand around the back of his neck, her fingers coursing through the hair there while her other hand rest securely on his shoulder. Perhaps, he might bury his mouth in her neck, kiss her, nip and tug at the soft flesh there until she giggled. He just might let his hand slide down her back to rest on her bottom as he deftly manoeuvres his free hand under skirt, tantalizing her as his finger slipped beneath her garter.

Oh, yes. That is what they would have done, he thinks. If only Mr. Barrow had not interrupted.

Carson scrubs the back of his neck with his hand and the pats his hair down. He is convinced that he must look quite flustered as he tugs at his waistcoat. He straightens to his full height and with determination strides toward the door that will take him down the stairs to his wife.

"Carson," he hears a clear, authoritative voice ring out behind him.

"Yes, My Lady. How may I help?" he inquires as he turns to meet the smiling, yet serious countenance of Lady Mary. She looks like the cat caught liking the cream and for a moment he wonders if she has caught him out, if she's watched him standing idly in the library as while he thought of ravishing his wife.

"Mr. Talbot will be arriving this afternoon, we should be prepared that he might stay so if you could have Mrs. Hughes prepare a room and we will need some coffee when he arrives."

He knows now that if Lady Mary is smiling about Mr. Talbot's arrival, things must have thawed between them and Carson is pleased for her. He genuinely hopes that his favourite will finally be happy.

* * *

With the coffee prepared and Mr. Molesley told to give it moment so that the newly engaged couple could indulge in a celebration of their agreement, Carson finally strides downstairs to his awaiting bride.

He passes by his own office and then comes to hers, to the shut door, and his fingers wrap around the door handle. He pauses a moment so that he does not rush in, pull her from her chair, and crash his lips into hers. He must not lose himself that way. Not at work where they are constantly interrupted.

When he finally opens the door, she is not sitting at her desk pouring over her ledgers but instead she is tending the little plant that she has potted. He watches for just a moment as she delicately folds back the new growth, takes the small scissors that hang at her hip, and clips the dead away.

"It's doing well," she says looking up at him, smiling. "My mother always had a green thumb. I suppose I took that from her."

He only nods as he closes the door. She places the bits she has removed from the plant into the bin and dusts her hands off on a cloth.

He stands stock-still and she watches as he tugs at his waistcoat.

"Mr. Carson, I there something that you need?" she asks. Her voice is soft, a near whisper. The look in his eyes is her answer. She's seen the passion there before. The night he first kissed her in his pantry. Again on their wedding night, so serious and loving at the same time. He may be an old curmudgeon but he has never not made her feel wanted or desired, loved and adored.

She knows that she has started this, lit this fire that burns within him, burns within them. She teased him earlier and know he has come calling.

She holds out her hand to him and their fingers interlace as they move closer. He pulls her body flush to his and makes sure that she knows, feels, the power that she has over him. He claims her lips in a gentle kiss that quickly turns passionate.

"My, my Mr. Carson," she laughs as the kiss ends.

"Temptress," he grunts.

"Curmudgeon," she retorts, as she wraps her fingers around his neck.

He draws her in for another kiss and neither of them hear the door creak open but both hear the distinctive voice of the first footman calling for Mrs. Carson. The Carsons, amorously embraced, stare down Mr. Moseley who withers under Mrs. Carson's gaze.

"I know," he begins as he closes the door. "Give it a moment."

* * *

TBC… thank you for reading. I would love to know what you think. And yes, you did see an homage to Downton Wars, pt. 2.


	13. You Can Always Hold My Hand

A/N: On the eve of the Christmas Special this is part of my coping strategy to work out things in my mind and accept the end of Downton and what may come for my OTP. It has not been edited well, so please excuse any glaring errors.

* * *

He's fled the kitchen for his pantry and left his wife and Mrs. Patmore in a state of panic and confusion. Initially, Mrs. Patmore thinks it no more than an accident, a dropped cup of tea. Perhaps in the hand-off she had let go before he had a full grasp on it. But Elsie knows better. An accident would never send her husband into such a flustered panic.

She grabs a dishtowel and begins to clear away the shards of the shattered cup and saucer, to mop up the spilled tea but Mrs. Patmore kneels beside her and gently stills her hands. Mrs. Hughes looks up at her friend and the worry in her eyes is painfully evident.

"I'll clean this up," Mrs. Patmore calms her. "Go to him."

Mrs. Hughes nods and silently hands the towel off to her friend. Words aren't necessary and at the moment, Elsie doesn't know if she can find any that aren't a jumbled mess. Both women know that Mr. Carson is hiding something and that Andy and Mr. Molesley have been taking on more responsibility in the dining room as of late. That in and of itself has Mrs. Carson concerned because her husband has always prided himself on his service in the dining room.

His pantry door is closed and while she'd normally not necessarily knock now that they are married, she gives a slight tap on the door before she pushes in.

"Mr. Carson, I just wanted to see if there is anything that I can do to help," she offers quietly.

"I'm fine Mrs. Hughes, nothing to worry about," he replies flatly. He knows that she will see right through him, but he lies anyway because he does not want to burden her with his problem.

"No, you're not," she replies firmly as she closes the door and turns the lock. When he hears the bolt slide through the cylinder, he shutters. He's strung tight and the tension radiates off him.

He sits in his upholstered rocking chair, rubbing his hands furiously. She's noticed that he does this more lately, that he rubs his hands. He's not mentioned anything when she's asked and she assumes that his affliction is rheumatism. Her own joints click and ache in the early morning and on rainy days and why should her husband be any different. They are getting on after all.

She kneels in from of him and places her hands on his. "I'm not leaving this room until you tell me what's wrong and you know that I have the patience of a saint."

He finds a bare spot on the wall just over his wife's shoulder and stares at it. He cannot look at her or he will break.

"Why won't you tell me, Charlie?"

"I don't want to burden you."

"You are burdening me by not telling me so that we can face whatever this problem is together. I love you, Charlie. It is my right to share your burdens."

He takes in a deep and shuttering breath, closes his eyes, and when he opens them he looks down at her his eyes filled with tears.

"I love you Elsie," he replies, his voice breaking.

"Well then, why don't you tell me what you've been hiding," she replies lovingly.

Over the next hour, the butler tells his wife of how his hands shake; how the tremors began slowly and infrequently and how he was able to hide it and to compensate for it. But now, the tremors come more frequently and more violently. How he has embarrassed himself in front of the family who think that it is simply fatigue. When his wife asks if it is simply fatigue, he reaches to brush his fingers against her face. "No, my darling," he tells her. "It is more than that."

"But how can you be sure?"

"My father and my grandad suffered from the same condition. It is palsy and what good is a butler who cannot serve at table or polish the silver or whose hands shake uncontrollably?" There is resignation to his voice but a sense of relief as well. He's coming to terms with the reality of it, realizing that he has a wife with whom to share his burdens.

When she offers to be with him when he tells His Lordship, tenders his resignation, he refuses her and tells her that it is an errand he must do himself. She is reminded of a time that she once uttered those same words and understands why he says them now no matter how much she wants to be by his side in that moment.

She reaches into her sleeve and retrieves her handkerchief, an embroidered piece that Miss Baxter gave to her on her wedding day, and wipes the tears from her husband's eyes.


	14. In The Still of The Night

A/N: Since I had some spoilers when I wrote the last chapter, that chapter was somewhat different from canon in so far as timeline and this will be somewhat. The following chapters will follow canon through New Year's Eve and then will be what I interpret their life to be life during Carson's semi-retirement and Mrs. Carson's eventual retirement.

I do not believe that Carson has Parkinson's Disease but essential tremor. In Parkinson's Disease the hand trembles at rest, in essential tremor it trembles when in use, just as Carson's does. People with essential tremor can go on to lead quite fulfilling lives though their hands are usually affected first, the gait may be affected, speech shaky, and head. Think: Katherine Hepburn, who lived a long, vibrant life.

* * *

The cottage is still and very quiet. The only noise that Elsie Carson hears is that of the crickets calling to one another outside and the steady breathing of her husband on whose shoulder her head rests. They've not spoken much since that moment in his pantry when she confronted him about his condition and learned the truth of what could bring a mountain of a man to tears.

She reaches for his hand and covers it with her own, smoothes her fingers over his knuckles, the flesh of his hand. She is surprised when it is steady, when there is no trembling to be felt where merely a few hours ago, his hand shook with violent abandon.

"I didn't tell them."

She doesn't answer but simply grasps his hand more firmly, snuggles in a little more closely against him.

The walk home from the Abbey had been a quiet one, both of them lost in their own thoughts, thinking through what the future might bring. She had chanced a glance over at him as they walked and noticed how his shoulders seemed a little more sloped, his jaw clenched in concentration or consternation, which she could not tell. What she did see, what was unmistakable was the way he held his hand, the way he gripped it, clutched and rubbed it furiously, almost angrily.

As she lies here now, beside him, she can only think back to four years earlier when she thought her own body had betrayed her. She had never been more frightened and know that this must be how he feels now.

"When I went up to speak with His Lordship, Lady Edith had just called from London with her good news and I felt the time was inappropriate," Charles continued quietly. While that is the truth, he is grateful for the ringing telephone, for the joyous news from London, because while he looks forward to retirement with his wife he does not want it forced upon him. His life has been about control and now he feels so out of control, so much is changing that he cannot forestall.

"But your hand doesn't always shake, perhaps if you rest," Elsie suggests quietly. He slides his hand from beneath hers and scrubs it through his hair.

"No. It doesn't always shake, but it will not get better."

"Perhaps, you can have Mr. Molesley or Andy pour if you can't and you can still oversee things in the dining room."

"Hmmm, perhaps."

* * *

Elsie's having a cuppa and an amiable chat with Daisy and Mrs. Patmore. Daisy is considering going to live at the farm, taking up the offer that Mr. Mason has so generously extended her. The house is beginning to clear out, everyone going their separate ways and though Elsie has predicted it, it is both gratifying and sad to see her family breaking up, to send the chicks out of the nest. Soon only Mrs. Patmore, Andy, one housemaid, and a hallboy will be the only ones living in the servant's quarters. When she first came to the Abbey, the housekeeper remembers the attics teeming with young men and women eager to begin their lives in service.

Mrs. Patmore inquires of how Mrs. Carson's cooking is coming along, if the old curmudgeon has complained anymore since their little joke at his expense. She notices that sad smile and look of guilt and worry that passes across her friend's face when she answers that no, he's not complained anymore, that he's very appreciative of everything she does. If she only knew how guilty the housekeeper truly feels. How guilty she feels of feigning injury to her wrist when her husband now is afflicted with tremor over which he has no control.

Her back to the doorway, Elsie notices Mrs. Patmore give a quick and sharp nod in the direction of her sitting room. She turns just enough to see the retreating shadow of her husband.

"Mrs. Patmore, would you put a kettle on please."

* * *

Thank you for reading. A note of review would be lovely. I apologize for not getting around to every review last time. Please know that I do read them all and that they me the world to me. x


	15. A Talk Between Friends

The ruddy cheeked cook has pushed in and in no uncertain terms asks Elsie what all the fuss was about. While Lord Grantham and Lady Mary in conference with Mr. Carson is not necessarily anything unusual, seeing the stalwart Mrs. Hughes leave the Butler's pantry dejected with tears in her eyes is unusual and Mrs. Patmore means to find out why.

"Mr. Carson'll not like that I've been talking," the housekeeper sighs. She knows that the cook means well and after all that she and her husband have asked of the her, the messages that they had her relay during the negotiations over their marriage, she owes Mrs. Patmore an explanation. With a nod of her head, Mrs. Hughes ushers Mrs. Patmore into her sitting room and firmly shuts the door behind her.

Sitting down at the table, Elsie offers her friend a glass of wine which Mrs. Patmore eagerly accepts. She watches as the housekeeper drinks the full contents of her glass in one swallow and pours herself another.

"It can't be all that bad. Can it?" Mrs. Patmore questions. The housekeeper cocks her head to the side, purses her lips, and the cook knows that something is terribly amiss; that she may have a difficult time prying information from her friend. Then the penny drops and the cook watches as Mrs. Hughes begins to fidget with her skirt smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles and picking at a loose thread that isn't there.

"Oh, my lord! You're sick again! And you've not been married long and oh, Mrs. Hughes. You know that Mr. Carson will…."

The housekeeper stops her well-meaning friend with an upheld hand. She shakes her head and grips her glass tightly in her hand. She feels her free hand begin to tremble much as she'd felt her husband's hand tremble earlier in the evening when he'd come down to her sitting room, embarrassed when he's been afraid to pour Lord Grantham's wine, feared of ruining another tablecloth or worse yet spilling the claret on a member of the family.

He'd escaped downstairs after dinner, after the family had removed to the drawing room and he'd seen that everything was in order. He'd sought the safety of her company and she'd taken his trembling hand in hers, offered her soothing, calming touch. If she's honest, just to touch him comforted her as well. She covets the tenderness of his touch now, the feeling of his skin against hers no matter how slight.

And now, she finds her hand trembling all the same. But it's different. She can control it; he cannot.

"I'm not ill, Mrs. Patmore," she begins.

While her husband's admission to the Crawley's came painfully, this is the first time that Elsie has admitted to anyone with whom she has a truly personal relationship, someone with whom she has shared secrets, that her husband is ill and that she is frightened. She hasn't a sister in whom she can confide. She hasn't see poor Becky in so long and it is likely she wouldn't understand anyway. Elsie is thankful that she has Mrs. Patmore, that they've grown past arguments over the storeroom key and such trivial things to become true friends and allies. Someone with whom she can confide.

With a furrowed brow Mrs. Patmore opens he mouth to speak but pauses to consider her words carefully but all she can manage is the simplicity of "I don't understand."

"Mr. Carson offered his resignation. He feels that he can no longer perform his duties," the housekeeper admits, tears filling her eyes.

"Blimey." It is more of a quiet aside of confusion than an expression of exasperation. The thoughts of Downton without the butler is something that Mrs. Patmore cannot imagine. Even though she and the Carsons have discussed retirement, she assumes that when the time comes that they will hand over the reins to the young ones and retire together. She's never known Downton without Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes.

"But, why? He isn't ill, is he? He looks as healthy as a horse." These aren't necessarily questions for the housekeeper, but the working out of her own muddled thoughts.

Mrs. Hughes begins the slow process of explaining her husband's condition. She tells of his distress and her confusion that he's felt the need to keep this from her. She'll not tell Mrs. Patmore nor another living soul, but truth told, she's a little hurt because she's his wife now and she loves him and she wants to share not only in his every happiness but in his burdens as well. But they are still learning to how to be married, learning to break old habits.

She tells how his hand shakes and that his grandfather and father before him were afflicted; how it ended their careers and how he hoped that it would pass him by. She looks to the floor, finds a discolored spot and studies it for a moment before she continues. It's a tactic she uses sometimes when she is upset, a distraction when she needs to gather herself, to control her emotions. When she looks up, catches the gaze of the cook, she sees the concern of a genuine friend and finds the courage to carry on. Elsie knows that their secrets are safe.

She tells of how her strong, proud husband has embarrassed himself in the dining room. Of how he's put off telling the family and how spilled wine lead to Lady Mary's inquiry then her instructing Mr. Carson to rest. How His Lordship's asking why the butler refused to pour the wine himself lead to the meeting in which her husband finally confessed and admitted his illness.

"Did you never notice anything? Never notice his hand shaking?"

"Well, I had noticed a few times but I thought…." Elsie's voice fades out as she thinks of the times that she saw her husband's hand shake in the still darkness of their bedroom. She hadn't thought much of it, laid it off to loving embraces, nights of passion that had left her feeling pleasantly unsteady as well.

"He had dropped the tea cup in the kitchen as you know and once, he handed some papers to me and it was quite noticeable and then when I handed his teacup to him he had to grasp it with both hands to keep from dropping it. I confronted him then but he denied it. But then…."

"But he's been to see the doctor?"

"No. He says there's no need."

"But surely…."

"He's a stubborn man Mrs. Patmore."

"Don't I know it." Both women share a laugh that is one-part sadness and three parts fondness. Having been on the receiving end of Mr. Carson's infuriating bullheadedness on more than one occasion, they both know that his bark is worse than his bite. Mrs. Patmore sighs, smiles with affection before she asks the inevitable. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," the housekeeper answers wistfully. "That is for him to decide."

* * *

Thank you for reading. A note of review would be appreciated. The next chapter will be Christmas at the Carson Cottage with a large helping of happiness…. enough melancholy for the moment. We were deprived of Christmas in canon, so I'd like to explore it here.


	16. Christmas

Christmas 1925

The fire burns low, one lone log smoldering red hot, a few flames occasionally licking up against its sides. The Carsons are covered in a blanket and a thick down comforter, an indulgence that she allowed herself when they left the Abbey. Elsie used the excuse that she wanted a new cover for their bed because her feet were always cold, really she wanted something pretty and feminine, something all her own, all their own.

Her husband eases from under the blankets careful not wake his sleeping wife, but their bedroom has gone chilly and they'll be up and about soon enough. He wants to make sure that the cottage is cozy when they open their gifts to one another and tuck into their breakfast. He turns and looks back at her, lying still, covered up to her chin in every blanket that covers their bed. He enjoys this time in the early morning when he wakes before her. When he can look over and see her contented, lines of worry smoothed from her face, the plait of hair gently cascading over her shoulder and he is reminded of the housemaid he first met all those years ago.

Turning his attentions to the smoldering fire, Charles pushes the glowing embers off the log and moves them around until they catch up once again. Leaning down, he fetches another log from the metal bin that sits nearby and carefully places it onto the fire, watching as sparks bounce into the air before vanishing as quickly as they ignited.

He stands and leans against the mantle, presses his right hand heavily against it. His is a little stiff but his hand doesn't tremble and that is a blessing. It didn't tremble yesterday, not during dining room service or later during the Christmas party, though Andy and Mr. Molesley handled most of the pouring of wine, champagne, and punch. His hand hadn't trembled on the walk from the Abbey to their cottage nor as he traced the dips and curves of his wife's hip and stomach as the celebrated the one-year anniversary of their engagement.

The faces in the picture that sits on the mantle stare back at him. The woman smiles a wide, toothy grin and the man beams, a smile so proud, so unusual that Charles hardly recognizes him. He traces finger over the edge of the silver frame, a gift from Lady Mary, and then over the glowing face of his wife. He'd never been happier on the day of their wedding and she'd had never been more beautiful he thinks.

He wonders, in these early morning hours before she wakes and when he has time to think without interruption, what their lives might have been. What life might have been like if they'd married many years ago, if his heart hadn't been shattered by Alice Neal and if he hadn't walled it off. If he'd acted on what he'd known was bubbling under the surface but couldn't admit.

What it would have been like to see her belly large, filled with his child. To see her laughing with happiness at the prospect of selecting a name and watching the child grow. To see her in their kitchen baking shortbread and scones, teaching their daughter traditional recipes and how to tend house. But sometimes a niggling doubt lingers. She turned the famer down after all. And he's never asked her if it was because she didn't love him or because she didn't want to give up everything she'd worked for.

Would she have given it all up for him? All those years ago. Did she love him then as he loved her? But then, he puts it out of his mind because you can't go back, can't rewind history. Then suddenly, in the glow of the firelight he smiles. She once told him that they'd be doing things his way for the next thirty years. And he realizes, they've really had each other most all their lives.

"What time is it?" Elsie's voice cracks with sleep as she stirs and turns to find her husband prodding at the fire with the poker.

"Just gone five."

"You'll catch your death." Her eyes rake over his body. He's wearing only his pajama bottoms, his pajama shirt still lying crumpled at the foot of the bed. She appreciates his form; he's still quite strapping for a man his age.

"I'm fine." His shoulder snaps a little as bends to place the poker back beside the corner of the fireplace. He stretches and groans. He can feel a bit of old age setting in. Other days he feels as spry as a young man.

"Come back to bed."

"That sounds a little risqué, Mrs. Hughes." He waggles his eyebrows and gives her his best boyish smirk as he rounds the end of the bed, lifts the blankets and the sheets, and settles in.

"You're an old rascal, Mr. Carson."

"But I'm your old rascal."

Elsie manages a sleepy little laugh as her husband shuffles closer to her and begins to trail his fingers along her bare thigh and over the curve of her bottom as he pulls her closer. Charles places a soft kiss to her shoulder and another at her temple as he feels her fingers begin to trace over the shell of his ear and then thread through the hair on the back of his neck.

"Do you want to have breakfast here or at the house?"

"Oh, I should think here, if you're agreeable," he answers, his breath is warm against her skin. They relish this time together when the house is still, when they're not needed early at the Abbey. It's time that they can linger and appreciate one another. They've not had time to linger over much in their lives and this time together is not lost on them as they cuddle together as they explore so many new sensations forbidden them for so long.

"I'm agreeable," a kiss to her husband's cheek elicits a low hum and his approval.

* * *

They've managed breakfast quite well. Charles has come to appreciate his wife's improved cooking ability going so far as to confide that her scrambled eggs and bacon rashers are on par with Mrs. Patmore's. She furrows her brow and looks quite skeptical, she doesn't quite believe him, but she'll take the compliment because it's Christmas morning and Charles' generosity of spirit is very becoming. It's a nice change to see him so contented, to see a smile firmly rooted about his lips rather than the frown and look of melancholy that has been almost permanently etched there for months. In the past few days they've not spoken of his condition, neither of them wishing to spoil the holiday with thoughts of difficult decisions yet to be made.

Lady Mary has made sure that a Christmas tree was delivered both to the Bateses' and the Carsons' cottages and though Elsie usually bristles at the young woman's interference, she is grateful for the gift. She remembers spartan Christmases in Scotland with a few gifts for Becky and herself, but not much more. But she'll not deny that she enjoys the pageantry of it all, the majesty of the seeing the tree brought in, stood into place, and decorated. Gifts wrapped and placed under the tree, carols sung, and the merriment that the season brings.

From the sitting room, Charles beckons her, as she puts away the last of their breakfast dishes. She wraps the last two scones and rashers of bacon in greaseproof paper and sets them aside. Her mother and her grandmother did the same and she fondly recalls bounding into the kitchen after a day of chores to find a snack waiting for her. She smiles and shakes her head at the memory. The things that one does like your mother.

When she finally settles next to him, Charles reaches beneath the tree and retrieves a small size box that Elsie knows has been wrapped with by one of the ladies at the Abbey or by a shopgirl in the village. The corners of the wrapping paper are perfectly sharp and the ribbon exquisitely tied. Her husband looks quite proud of himself as he presents her with it.

"Happy Christmas, Elsie," he beams. Before she opens her gift, she gestures to the lone gift that remains under the tree. Wrapped snugly in white paper with a red ribbon, the large box is meant for him she says as she asks him to fetch it.

"You first," he says gallantly.

"Why not together."

They smile and begin to delicately unwrap their gifts. Elsie manages to lift the lid of her box first and audible gasp of surprise escapes. Elsie knows that Charles has a taste for the finer things in life. He's been frugal with his money, he's prepared for retirement and she's thankful for that, but today he's surprised her.

"You don't like it?"

"Oh, no. It's…it's lovely," she answers, completely mesmerized by the silver pendant watch that that she finds wrapped among the pretty paper. "But you shouldn't have. We can't afford it, surely."

"We can and I wanted you to have it. I may not always be able to provide you with something like this but until I can't…" his voice trails off and she leans over to kiss his cheek. She knows what he's thinking. The things they've not spoken of in days, the thing that neither want to face.

"There's an inscription on the back," he says quietly.

Turning the watch over, Elsie reads the small engraving and her breath catches.

"To the next 30," she whispers, a bit of a question in her voice. Her fingers slowly sweep over the delicate swirls and grooves carefully are etched into the silver.

"When I had it engraved the young man thought that the inscription was an anniversary. Well, it is of sorts."

Once, when they had been in disagreement, she'd told him that they would be doing things his way for the next thirty years and it struck him that they had known one another most of their adult lives, had reached many of life's important milestones together. Births, deaths, christenings, and funerals. Illness. Worry. Housemaids and footmen coming and going. Yes, they'd been through it all. Together.

"We've celebrated thirty years of Christmases Elsie. If we are lucky enough to have thirty more now that we're married…. well…." Charles cups her cheek and she leans into the warmth that she finds there. Elsie cannot look up at him because if she does she will flood in tears. He once chided her for sentimentality, but he's proven that he's the real one for it. "You can pin it to your dress or to your coat."

When she's collected herself, Elsie finally looks up to see the love and affection in her husband's eyes. He'd told her that he was no stranger to romance and she'd wondered at the time if he told the truth, but he's proven it to her time and time again. Small touches, his hand at the small of her back as he guides her in the church house door on Sundays, the way he helps her with her coat, and lingers just a moment and plants a kiss to her hair. The way his hand glides over hers and then down again catching up her fingers with his own holding one another steady when they are at their most fragile, most exposed, but soaring in pleasure together.

Her husband. A man of many emotions. When he allows them to be unlocked.

Before Elsie gets caught up in her own thoughts, her own sentiment, from somewhere deep the housekeeper takes over. She finds that Mrs. Hughes rears her head from time to time, when Elsie needs to keep her emotions in check. Elsie flicks a finger and motions for Charles to look into the box that he holds, to pull back the paper and find the gift that she's chosen for him. She cannot help but to feel silly in light of what he chose for her.

"Oh, Elsie. It's very nice," he rumbles sincerely.

"I'm afraid it's not nearly as nice as what you've given me," she replies meekly, sincerely. She's always been the more practical one. She has had to be.

Charles pulls the dove grey dressing gown from the box, sets the box aside, and spreads the dressing gown across his lap, admiring the rich softness of the fabric. He traces over the rolled collar with white piping, the pocket with matching monogram.

"You did this." It isn't a question he asks, but a declaration. The letters of his monogram swirl and curve in an intimate, interlocking pattern much like the two people who live in this cottage.

"With my own fair hands." And there is a smile in her voice, a tease. "I may not have Miss Baxter's skill but I do know my way around a needle and thread."

"Of course, you do. It's wonderful," he murmurs so quietly that he not even sure that the words are audible. He wants to say so much more to her. That he's sorry, that he's been an old fool and he begs her forgiveness. That's she's everything to him and perfect corners and undercooked lamb aren't important in the grand scheme of things.

Charles marvels at the handiwork of his wife. That's she taken the time to stich his initials into the thick fabric, that her handiwork will lie next to his heart every time he slips into this gift she's given him. He knows that he's been more than grumpy, more than a mere curmudgeon the months since their marriage and that she has borne the brunt of his harshness. But he's been frightened more so that anytime in his life, except when he thought that _she_ was ill. That she might leave him to navigate life's odyssey alone and now, sometimes, he feels that he might become useless to her and he lashes out in fear as he always does when he is overwhelmed and distraught. A foolish man.

Charles stands and makes to try on his new dressing gown, sliding one arm into a sleeve and then the other, pulling it across his shoulders and tugging it forward.

"Well?" he asks.

Elsie casts and appraising eye and stands to move to her husband. Standing very close before him, she slides her hands around his neck, under the collar of the dressing gown to smooth it, and then down his chest. She pulls the robe closed and reaches for the tie, her nimble fingers creating a secure knot.

"There, perfect," she observes.

"Yes," her husband responds, his voice low tinged around the edges with something smoky and smooth and burning all at once like a fine whisky. "Perfect."

And suddenly, with the way that he is looking at her, his eyes, sincere and dark, his tongue darting out to moisten his lips, she wonders if he's speaking about the fit of his dressing gown or her.

"I was worried when I ordered it from one of Mrs. Patmore's catalogues that it might not fit and that…."

Suddenly her nervous rambling is cut off by the crashing down of his lips onto hers. His lips are insistent, demanding and she is kissing him back with everything that she has. Her fingers struggle with the dressing gown's tie and when she finally manages it, her hands trail a slow line up his chest and then to his face, her fingers each side of it pulling him closer. His hands find their way to her waist and he pulls her as close as two people can be.

When they finally break apart, Charles smiles against his wife's lips. He loves this woman and despite what comes he knows that she loves him warts and all.

"Happy Christmas, Elsie."

"Happy Christmas, my Charlie."

* * *

TBC…. next we have Christmas in the servants' hall at the Abbey. Thanks to Kouw, Onmyside, and Dameofdownstairs for their support. I truly appreciate it. A note of review would be lovely if you have the time. Thank you for reading. Happy Downton Sunday and Chelsie Wedding Day (for the US)!


	17. A Man of Honor and Integrity

He's walked ahead of her and retreated to his pantry. She's watched him as he's closed the pantry door behind him and she's brokenhearted for him. She shakes her head almost imperceptibly at the lack of understanding as to why such a strong man as her husband has been afflicted by this tremor. She gives him a moment to collect himself while she's stopped by the kitchen to ask Mrs. Patmore to put a kettle on and to stand guard over the pantry door. The last thing that they need now is to be interrupted.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs when he hears the door creak open. He's knows that it's his wife because she'd not let anyone disturb him, not after what's happened upstairs. Not after he's spilt the champagne and cursed so that everyone could hear. Not after Thomas Barrow has ascended to the throne; a thought that he's not had a moment to fully consider.

His voice slices through the stillness like a razor but it doesn't startle her. They stand stock still for a long moment and his back is to her as he leans over his desk, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched, and fingers splayed out bearing his weight. Elsie's stands with her back against the door, her hand clutching the door handle, knuckles white with tension. She's let him absorb what's happened, what's been said, and the reality of it all. She can hardly believe it herself, that this is the way it has ended. That such a small part of her husband has ended his career so swiftly and before he was ready to make the decision to retire for himself.

"Whatever for?" she hears herself answer softly.

"I've embarrassed you," he replies quietly, his voice quivering slightly and laced with tears of brokenness. She cannot help but think he's like and ancient oak felled by a diseased limb, by something that is such a small part of the whole.

"You could never embarrass me." Tears fill her eyes as she remembers the shock of his outburst upstairs. He'd have never allowed such a display from himself under normal circumstances.

"What is it they say? Pride cometh before a fall," he questions. She doesn't answer, but loosens her grip on the door handle and leans back against the door with a sigh. Charles turns to look at his wife, his eyes glistening with tears, "I suppose it's my punishment for treating Thomas the way I did. For pushing him out. For not considering his feelings. For calling him redundant."

"If you think that this is a punishment from God, then that is not the God that I know," she assures him.

"What am I expected to do with myself? All I know is to be a butler. That's what I am. It's what I've been for most of my life. How am I to carry on? What are we to do? What about the house on Brouncker road?"

"Enough." Her tone has a tinge of harshness to it; she's marshaled the housekeeper and it has been such a long time since Charles has heard from her. They've not quarreled, not really, in a long while. Not even when they disagreed over the details of the wedding did the sharp lash of her tongue rise up. She knows him so much better now that they've shared themselves with one another, now that they've lived as closely as two people can. She's seen the more intimate side of this man that she's known for half of her life. She's seen him both strong and fragile at the same time as she's held him close to her breast in the early morning hours. She knows that he is more than the man in the starched livery.

She moves close to him and between her steady hands she takes his shaking one. She rubs it with tenderness and compassion and the shaking stops. She's knows that her touch will not cure what ails him, but her comforting touch seems to still him all the same.

"Charles Carson" she begins softly. "being a butler is what you do, but it is not who you are. You are a man who is very highly valued inside this house and out. You are man of principle and honor. A man that people seek out for his leadership and advice. The war memorial committee didn't seek you out because you are the butler of this house. They sought you out because you are a respected resident of the village. Lady Mary doesn't love you because you are a butler, but because you love her in return. Because you accept her as she is."

Charles lifts his free hand and brushes the back of his fingers against Elsie's cheek, and feels the smoothness of her skin. He's thankful for her calmness in the middle of this storm. As he cups her cheek, she leans into him and closes her eyes. Charles moves his hand to the back of her neck and gently pulls his once trembling hand free from hers to place it around her waist and pulls her closer. As she slides her hands up his chest and then to his face cradling it between them, he leans in to kiss her. When they pull back from the kiss, his hands drop to her waist and hers wrap around his neck. She smiles at him and has a final declaration to make.

"Charlie, the man I love is not the man who dresses in a livery and commands this house. I am proud of him, but the man I love, the man I have loved for longer than he knows is much more than that. Charlie, you are a good and kind man," and she smiles as she adds "even underneath all that curmudgeonly gruffness. The man I love is the one who whispered my name and told me how much he cared for me as I mopped his brow with a cool flannel when he was ill."

"When I had flu?" he asks and she confirms with a tight nod of her head. "But I don't remember that."

"No. You wouldn't," she answered quietly. "And I knew that you sang for me when Mrs. Patmore told you that I would be all right. Only a very kind and loving man would do such a thing."

"You knew about that?" he asks with genuine surprise. "You never told me," he replies, his cheeks blushing.

"No, I tucked it away in my heart," she admits. She combs her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. "Charles, you are so much more than what you do," she confides as she leans up to kiss him soundly.

"What do we do now?" he asks as they pull back.

Elsie slides her hands down his shoulder, his arms, and grasps his hands in hers. She squeezes them firmly, assuring him they she will always keep him steady.

"We will dry our tears. And we will go back upstairs and you will do what you do best. You will be an example of strength and integrity and graciousness. And I, I will beside you every step of the way. I told you once that you can always hold my hand if you need to feel steady. I meant it then and I mean it now. And when you retire, you will manage another house. It may not be as grand as this one, but it is our house and it will be successful because you will make it so."

They exchange words of love and devotion and a last, sweet kiss. Charles trusts his wife implicitly and as she leads him upstairs, his hand wrapped tightly around hers, Charles is thankful that this woman is his wife. This wise woman who loves him without reservation. This woman who steadies him in every possible way.

* * *

Thank you for reading. A word of review would be lovely. x


	18. Fundamental Things

A/N: Please excuse any errors.

* * *

New Year's Day 1926 – just at midnight and a little later

The party is still going strong upstairs and from the looks of it the Granthams and their guests will celebrate into the wee hours. The alcohol is flowing freely and with punch, champagne, and cocktails being consumed in equal measure it seems that Mr. Talbot may well be on his way to a hangover. While many are celebrating, ringing in the new year with gusto, Mr. Talbot is well on his way to a late morning, a head crushing with pain from the cocktails that he's been drinking. Mrs. Carson has noticed his difficulty in adjusting to his role at Downton; she has heard whispers of his shouting in the middle of the night, of the nightmares that he suffers, and his grief is evident. Anna has mentioned that the terrors that come in the nigh, are vivid dreams of his friend being burned alive before his eyes.

For everyone else there seems to be much to celebrate. Laird Flintshire, who arrived especially from London, is wreathed in smiles despite the crumbling of his marriage. He has toasted merrily to the impending arrival of his grandchild and accepted the congratulations of everyone present. Lord Merton seems happy enough. Lady Merton has been by his side since they've arrived and every day since she rescued him from the clutches of his son and his conniving wife who had tried to drive him out of his home and make his life miserable. Since she married him, both she and Lord Merton seem happy indeed.

After the final toast, after Lord Grantham extends his wishes for a Happy New Year to all and sundry, the servants are free to disperse and they make their way downstairs. Christmas decorations still hang in the servant's hall - the maids will take them down come morning and store them away until next Christmas and Charles has seen to it that the champagne is chilled and waiting for them to toast in the new year. Mrs. Patmore has asked Mr. Mason to join them and Thomas has returned to participate in the festivities. Mrs. Carson extended him the invitation because after all, even though he is the rebellious son, he is their family.

Andy pours the champagne, makes sure that everyone has a glass, and even Mr. Molesley accepts one. Miss Baxter gives him a knowing smile and a pat on the arm. One glass in celebration, he's deserved it she tells him.

When he's sure that everyone has a glass, Charles stands before them, and clears his throat. He still commands their attention; he is the captain of their ship for a while longer. The housekeeper watches him and wonders if he will break, if he can keep up the façade. He has been out of sorts all week and she has worried that he will fall to pieces when he makes his traditional New Year's speech bestowing good tidings on all who are present.

"All right," he commands, his voice strong and imperious. He does not waver. A hush falls over the small gathering as they turn to him. His wife stands by him as he opens his pocket watch, careful to do so with his left hand. He does not wish to draw attention to his right hand, the one that has betrayed him, the one that trembles. "Five, four, three, two, one. Happy New Year," he announces. Charles stands and as the others turn to one another and extend congratulations and well wishes, Charles turns to his wife and leans in to kiss her while she meets him half way. His eyes flutter closed and a smile tugs at his lips and spreads all the way up his cheeks; the corners of his eyes crinkle in happy abandon.

Their kiss is no more than a fleeting brush of warm, soft lips - a singular peck. But it is significant to her because before tonight he would have never dreamt of kissing her in the servant's hall, never dreamt of kissing her at work and it is thrilling. While the others are celebrating among themselves, Elsie kisses her husband and she doesn't close her eyes like she's seen in the movies, but instead she keeps them open. She has waited so long for him that she doesn't want to miss any of their life together. She wants to see every expression of love that he offers her.

They pull away from one another, but Charles leans into his wife's ear and makes a simple request. Charles has made the same request of Mrs. Hughes for the last twenty-three years but this year his request takes on special significance. So many are missing from around the table. Anna and Bates are upstairs in Lady Mary's bedroom with their newly arrived little one. Though Thomas has returned to celebrate with them, he will return to home in a few hours. It is nice having Mr. Mason present, mostly because Mrs. Patmore seems pleased. Elsie sees murmurings afoot there. She wishes for her friend the same happiness that she shares with the Butler.

Elsie stands before her family, for they are her family in all the ways that count and she begins to sing the old Scottish tune.

She's always thought the tune melancholy, a celebration of old times gone by. She knows that the old ways are crumbling away, that her husband has grudgingly accepted this and the words of this song have taken on new relevance. As their family will be breaking up, she lifts her glass to salute them, a symbol to celebrate what will soon be only memories.

Her voice breaks as she sings those last verses, hears her man sing words of paddling in the stream, from morning sun until the dine. The significance is not lost on her, nor on her husband either as he reaches for her and takes her hand. When he looks at her as they sing of the broad seas roaring between them they cannot help but to smile, their passions have always run deep. Love and devotion stand side by side with frustration and bickering.

After a while, when they've have more champagne and made conversation with the others, Charles realizes that his wife is nowhere to be found. But he is occupied with Mr. Mason discussing young Andy's interest in farming. Mr. Mason takes of the young footman's aptitude for farming and Charles suspects that Andy might be leaving service sometime soon. He tries not to be rude, but he scans the crowd and his wife has not returned and he wonders if perhaps she is fetching some coffee or tea. He natters on with Mr. Mason a few moments, then excuses himself, and goes in search of her.

His own room is dark as is her sitting room and there is no sign of her in the kitchen. He's beginning to wonder where she's stolen away to when the penny drops and he places his hand on the railing of the staircase.

* * *

She was there when the wee bairn was born, perhaps not in the room, but just outside the door. After she'd brought fresh linens and made sure that Dr. Clarkson and Mrs. Crawley had everything they needed, she quietly stepped aside and left them to their work. Of course, Lady Mary stayed behind, but then she would wouldn't she?

Elsie wishes she had been there by Anna's side but, she hadn't the right. She is a housekeeper not a midwife. She is an employer, perhaps a mother figure and a confidant but she is not Anna's mother, nor John's. But she is as proud for them as if she is all of those things.

She was one of the first into the room after the babe took his first breaths and gave his first piercing cries. Mr. Bates had come to the door and with a broad smile ushered her in to see his son. Elsie's heart swelled at the sight of the little one, so rosy and pink, resting so naturally on his mother's bosom and taking nourishment.

The boisterousness in the servants' hall is such a contrast to the quietness along the hallway leading to Lady Mary's bedroom and Elsie wonders if she's being silly by hoping to see little Jack Bates one last time before she and Charles head home. She's not quite sure why the urge is so very strong to see him, but it's there all the same. She'll check that the light is on and if it isn't she'll continue on her way. But if it is, she'll knock quietly and then peek inside until she's bidden entrance. She's not brought a pot of tea or tray of biscuits, not brought one item to offer Anna and Mr. Bates any sustenance. She's not coming on any false pretenses. She simply wants to see new life and the new family that has formed.

Her knock at the door is light and she can hear quiet rustling in the room and hushed conversation. Soon the door opens and Mr. Bates is standing on the other side of it, a warm, knowing smile playing about his lips.

"I hope that I'm not intruding?"

"Of course not, Mrs. Hughes. We've been expecting you." There's a bit of a mischievous smirk in Mr. Bates's tone. Elsie doesn't mind because they both know that before she and Charles leave for the cottage, she wants to check that Anna and the babe are well.

When she enters Lady Mary's bedroom, she finds Anna propped on pillows and the babe suckling at her breast. Of course, it isn't the first time that she's seen a child being nourished from his mother's bosom, but this is different. This is Anna. The sight warms Elsie's heart and she cannot help but feel a little proud. Out of all her charges, the girls she's seen grow into women, it is Anna that she holds dear. Anna who is in many ways most like her, capable and efficient. Strong.

"Oh, he is a beautiful little chap indeed," Elsie beams. Her entire face pulls into a smile as she looks from the Anna and the babe to Mr. Bates. "I know that you're very proud."

"No man has ever been prouder," Mr. Bates agrees, eyes alight in utter joy.

"I'm glad that you came Mrs. Hughes," Anna offers softly as she gestures for Elsie to sit beside her.

"Why's that?"

"Mr. Bates and I never properly thanked you for your support in our…time of difficulty," Anna offers quietly, but firmly.

Elsie doesn't answer, doesn't say anything in return, but simply gives Anna's hand a gentle squeeze. She'll never forget the sight of Anna battered and hiding in her sitting room that night or Mr. Bates' anguish at Anna's distance from him, but this lovely sight in front of her, this beautiful family will ease the pain that she's felt.

Little Jack finishes his nursing and is beginning to drift off and the conversation among his admirers turns quiet for a moment.

"Would you like to hold him, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Of course, I'd love to hold him."

Elsie takes the small babe from his mother and tucks him gently into his blanket and brings in him into her embrace. Moving to a nearby chair, she sits and rocks him and draws a soft finger against his cheek. Her adoration of him is evident in the way she admires his features and speaks to him. His parents glance at one another and smile knowing that their little boy already has a champion in the housekeeper.

"You are a beautiful wee bairn," Elsie coos. The babe is drifting off, his eyelids heavy with sleep.

"Lady Mary told us of Mr. Carson," Mr. Bates begins. "I'm sorry that he's forced to retire. The house will not be the same." There's a genuine tone of sadness to his voice. After all, even though they are not bound by blood, they are all family just the same.

"Well, it is sooner than we expected," she says not looking up from the baby and continuing to brush her fingers across the strands of hair that cover his bald held. "But we will adjust. Times change. Lives change. This little boy is proof enough of that," she smiles looking up to his parents.

"Elsie?"

Charles has watched from the doorway, heard every word that's been said. His wife is right. Times change and lives change. She's promised to guide him this new season of their lives and they will indeed make a go of it.

He watches as the love his wife has to offer washes over the babe in her arms. It is akin to a holy communion of sorts. The housekeeper has baptized this new one into their family.

"Please, Mr. Carson. Come in," Mr. Bates invites him.

* * *

Music from phonograph in the servants' hall begins to waft through the air. It's a bright and jubilant tune that's far removed from the song they'd all sung earlier. The song is bold and brassy, brassy and bold. The party shows no signs of slowing down and Elsie knows that there will be tired, long faces in the morning. But there is nothing for it and everyone in the house is celebrating.

"I thought that I'd make a pot of coffee before we leave. I think some of them will surely need it. And Mrs. Patmore said that we could take a few bits with us for our dinner tomorrow. It was very kind of His Lordship to give us the day off."

"January 1, 1902," Charles announces proudly. "You had just been promoted to housekeeper and I asked you if you'd like to have a glass of wine to celebrate."

"You remembered," she laughs. "I some ways it seems like just yesterday," she muses as he closes the distance between them.

"I suppose that I am waxing nostalgic," Charles admits as he places his hands around his wife's waist.

"I suppose that we both are," his wife confirms as her hands slide up his arms and around his neck. "So much of our lives have been tied to this house and the people in it. So many things have happened here."

"Good things I hope?" Charles asks as they sway to the music.

"Well, they've not _always_ been good," she muses. "But the very best things have certainly happened to me in this house." The twinkle in her eyes says more than the words she's just spoken. He knows that the very best things are the things between them.

"The very best things," he confirms with a sweet kiss as he pulls her into his embrace.

"Are you ready to go home?" he asks against her hair. He feels her nod her affirmation against his chest.

Charles knows that though their life will be different, the fundamental things are the same, will always be the same. And that makes all the difference.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading. I have made the decision to end here, with January 1, 1926 and then to continue in sequel. I thank you for reading. If you've the time, I'd love a review. They really make my day!


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